As it happens

As it happens the lead guitarist was late for the gig at the pub. Half an hour late. As it happens I was on my last drink, bought for me by the publican. As it happens this bloke had tatts on the right forearm, tatts on the left forearm, a fat arse, and a supposed designer rip in the left knee of his jeans.

          I say ‘supposed’ because it’d be a ‘designer rip’ if he was twenty, nay twenty-five, nay maybe thirty, but not forty.

          I felt sorry for the bloke. Initially. Felt sorry for the bloke, not because he was a dad but because I was wondering whether he was truly acting or looking like a dad. His daughter was around about twelve. She wore jeans but she didn’t have a designer rip.

          I felt sorry for the bloke. But maybe that was because of the wife. Bottle-blonde, square-jawed, fat-arsed, outer suburbs Australian drawl.

          As it happens the band was tuning up. Taking a sound check. A female vocalist I’d heard a couple of weeks ago, good, very good, helluva range was singing tonight. She was tuning in. I was tuning in to her tuning in.

          As it happens the bottle-blonde, square-jawed, fat-arsed wife thinks I’m tuning in to her. For Chrissake she’d be the last woman in the pub, city, state, country, world, universe – OK, maybe that’s an exaggeration! – I’d be interested in tuning in to. But it’s not far off the mark.

          She tells her husband, tatts, fat-arse, non-designer rip – non-designer drip I’d say – that I’m ‘giving her the willies’. That I’m lookin’ at ‘er.

          For Chrissake she’s in my line of sight. To where the band are tuning up. If she doesn’t want me to look in her general direction why doesn’t she fuck off to the back of the bar? With her hair-colouring, her jaw, her arse, her voice, she should be so lucky if anyone looks at her. Ever.

          As it happens I’ve just about finished my shiraz merlot. I go to the fat-arsed couples table and ask just where the hell they got the idea that I was looking at her. ‘For Chrissake’, I say, ‘it’s not like she’s good looking’.

          I like to make my point but I fuck off because it’s not worth waiting for a response. Because beneath the tatts are a pair of powerful forearms. Because I’ve finished my shiraz merlot as it happens.

          As it happens I never did get to hear that first song.

 

© Bernard Whimpress 21 October 2009

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