Visited The Post & Telegraph in Brighton today for the first time in months, and it’s changed. Where have all the regular drunks gone? I failed to recognise any of the new recruits, I checked my diary and it had been nearly three months, liver failure caught up with them I’d expect, never mind, I’ll have to spend some time getting to know them.
Sipping Diet Pepsi I noticed that there was some kind of celebration taking place to my right involving a couple of Jamaican families, probably a birthday of an elderly relative, perhaps it was a wedding because some were wearing clothes usually reserved for church. Then again it could have been a death though by the way one guy was eating, remorse for his dead relative was the least of his concerns, eating food was his primary and only focus.
I had a good view of the tables, the guy in the blue patterned shirt and lilac Bermuda shorts and 36dd breasts was ripping apart a 16oz steak with his fingers, hello knife and fork where are you? His cheeks where stuffed to capacity but still the fries were being forced through whilst nibbling, no nibbling is the wrong word, shredding corn from the cob with his teeth. This guy was hungry, very hungry. His appetite could not be satisfied with his own platter of food. He soon started on his grandmother’s leftovers, a half-eaten burger, followed by a bowl of cheesy nachos left by a disinterested child, there was also a half-eaten lasagne and the left over batter from a deep-fried cod. His cheeks were so stuffed I could see tiny pockets being stretched out near his temples to make way for more food, this guy was ravenous. To finish off he surveyed the carnage on the tables, spotted a paper pot of mayonnaise before scooping out the cream with his forefinger. I felt I could not eat for several days. One almighty belch later, the animal had completed his feed, but still had enough time to study the menu, obviously planning his next feed for later that evening.
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