Texan Cowboy

Another lunchtime in The Post & Telegraph earlier today and the sighting of a Texan cowboy, I would say fairly rare, even for a liberal & cosmopolitan area like Brighton. He bludgeoned his way through the front doors as if they were wild west saloon bar swing doors then stood there amazed, as if thinking ‘fuck me, this looks like a J D Wetherspoons pub’, was he expecting a Mexican cantina? Or maybe disappointed there was no Mongo-type character punching the lights out of a horse in Blazing Saddles. Not sure what was going through his brain, but he shifted his weight on one leg and readjusted his black leather Stetson, cupped his brow and stared at the bar as if having just spotted a distant desert oasis.

He could have been running, as he was sopping wet, the sweat from his pits had not only dripped through his shirt but had penetrated his jacket, a jacket designed for a much smaller man. The Texan Cowboy then turned and focused on me, however I was not prepared to get into a conversation with a lunatic who wore a copper sheriff’s badge on his lapel with ‘boyz’ stamped across the star. As he strolled towards me I quickly picked up an imaginary call from Michael on my Iphone and waited for him to brush by, thankfully there was no sign of a six-shooter in a holster but the rattle of his metal spurs was unsettling. He sat down looking around imperiously as if expecting a bottle of red eye and a shot glass to land on his table, however I wasn’t about to be the one to break the bad news to him that this would never happen so I zipped up my rucksack, said goodbye to a patient Michael and left before hell breaking loose.