Early evening drink at the Post & Telegraph (19 June 2011), North Street, Brighton and the place is heaving with drunkards. Supping on my Carlsberg I look to my left and glare at a pierced and heavily made up woman in her 60s with jet black dyed hair stretched so far back that her nostrils almost line up with her eyes. There’s also plenty of loose skin and flesh hanging off her carcass. She’s also smothered in a leopard-skin coat and has struggled into an obscenely low-cut blouse reminding me of Russ Meyer movies of the 1960s. Oh, and she has gypsy blood in her along with lashings of Guinness. Her repertoire consists of taking big lungfuls of an inhaler, dispersed with cackling hiccups whilst managing to guzzle down a bottle of Pinot Grigio. Guzzling is probably the wrong expression; necking would be more appropriate as the vino vanishes within minutes. There was one “shit-in-pants” moment when she twisted her neck towards me, winked several times in a cock-eyed way, then thankfully lost the coordination to stand otherwise I would have stood no chance.
Stumbling out I caught sight of a dethroned Russian princess in her 50s wearing a long imitation fur coat, who had probably eaten in some of the most expensive restaurants in the world, had now fallen on hard times – sipping on a flat Guinness whilst glaring at the passing peasants. She continues to slurp at her zillion-calorie chicken curry as I escape to the safety of North Street.
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