Sunday, February 25, 2007

Beerhall Putz

And so comes the close of an accidental five day drinking session. Without meaning to, I've been in varying states of drunkenness from mild inebriation to, well, not quite standing on tables with my trousers round my ankles singing Somebody Told Me by The Killers, merely simple slurry cheerfulness. And I've slept for 11 hours and totally screwed up my bodyclock by waking up at 3pm on Sunday afternoon.
I couldn't be more alert if I were in a trench being shot at.

Last night was excellent. Hippy Dave's girlfriend was celebrating her birthday at the Bavarian Beerhouse in town, a kitch underground warren of a place that made me want to go to Munich. (In fact, attending Oktoberfest was discussed, although that has probably been forgotten by all concerned by now).



Huge platters of sausages and sauerkraut were ordered, which delighted me and pissed me off in equal measure as I forgot they were coming and had ordered a Bavarian dish that resembled vomit salad (And I'm not commenting on the taste either).

The waitresses were delightfully attired in Bavarian Dirndl dresses, even if they did look stressed at having to dole out stein after stein of Paulaner as the beerhall is largely table-service. (If there were buckets under the tables, I wouldn't have had to move all night.) The waitresses also looked equally unimpressed at dribbling Neanderthal arseholes staring at their breasts all evening, but despite attempts at discretion, I kept getting caught.

Our waitress was particularly attentive - although I have a feeling I was enchanted by her breasts a little too much. I'm currently writing this with a comprehensive, almost sixth-sense recollection of every contour and dip of her cleavage.

Despite my staring, and not helped by the fact that at one point, my friends all cheered just because she'd taken my next order and walked off, I found myself talking to her later on. I had been sitting on a bench alone when she sat down next to me for a chat.
'That's intriguing', I thought. She's a cute marketing student from Austria, and we were having a nice conversation until some sodding customer staggered over to place an order for more beer, forcing her to leave. I didn't see her again until it was time to pay my tab.

Although she wasn't going on anywhere afterwards ("I'm going to bed", she kept insisting, and I didn't want to state the obvious/ creepy), I did buy her a schnapps even though my lovely Muslim ladyfriend expressly forbade me from buying the waitresses drinks. Unfortunately, I have a rather pathetic habit of buying drinks for female barstaff for no other reason than I find them really attractive and it's a quick and expensive way of letting them know when they're too busy and I'm too shy.
When I was told that there was no service charge included in the bill, I gave her a huge tip (money, not penis) and then never saw her again after that. Granted, they were closing and rushing around to clear up, but I was left with the sense that in return for being ogled at all night, they get tipped well over the odds by grateful idiots.

The most powerful weapon in the world isn't the split atom. It's a pair of tits squeezed into a corset.

I got into a mild argument with Hippy Dave in the cab on the way home. I'm currently reading Beyond Coincidence, a daft book with several daft chapters on possible scientific explanations for coincidences, a conclusion that it's probably all chance, then hundreds of remarkable stories.

I dared to offer my amazing story. Six years ago, I was in the small Indian village of McLeodganj, home of the Tibetian government in exile and of the Dalai Lama, where I was in a small bar with my travelling companion and a girl we both fancied. While sitting there, a lady, one of the other patrons, approached me.
'Excuse me, is your name Fwengebola?' she asked.
'Erm, yes?' I replied.
'And did you go to Bournemouth University?'
'Uh, yeah.'
It turned out that she'd studied there at the same time as me. We had a brief chat, then she left the bar as she was about to emigrate to Australia the following day.

Wow. Very weird. Dave didn't particuarly think so. But there was more. Three years after that meeting, I had decided to quit my dead-end job. I was in my life is passing me by phase, and decided to go travelling. I chose India again, Sri Lanka and Thailand, for a few months of finding myself. And when I'd got to Bankgkok, I found myself in a bar called Shamrocks on the Khao San Road. And while I was in this packed bar, that same girl, also there for the night, walked over to me and said 'What are you doing here?'

This still wasn't good enough for Dave. It still wasn't remarkable, or weird, or even meant anything at all. I know what he means as I feel vaguely the same way about it. After all, McLeaodganj and the Khao San Road are very well trodden destinations. Plus a coincidence isn't a coincidence if we don't spot it; they may happen all the time for all we know. But even so, Hippy Dave's still a party-pooping naysayer. In a word of uncertainties, coincidences give us a sense that there may be something meaningful, even magical, in this otherwise godless unstructured world.

They may be nonsense, but they're nice too.

But I know this much; Of all the bargirls I've ever bought drinks for, I'll never coincidentally run into any of them again.

PS ~ My stalker is back, claiming not to be Haggis, and asking if I enjoyed my wank. It is getting rather tiresome.

13 comments:

Joie de Vivre said...

Corsets are a dangerous weapon, often hurting the wearer more than it could ever hurt the ogler.

Stalker wants your ass, while I don't blame him, and credit his good taste, im going to ignore him (until i ring him and kick his ass for tiring you out when you wank?)

Waynecoff said...

Well Fwengebola, is that your real name? How did you get that?
Your mate Dave is a tosser, I have a mate like him, always put a bok on things. He is a boring git in the welch accent of course.
Talking about weird things, If thats strange about Bournemouth, but I used to go there for trips all the time. I love it. One of the best beach fronts in the UK. Almost as good as port madoct in Wales.
Lost track with you storker, you should put an add on gumtree for someone wanting to be spitroasted, and invite him over. Then hand him over, lol, how good would that, you could call it "stalked spit roast"

la fille mariƩe said...

Oooooh. Close one, Fweng. A little more persistence, and you might have been having a little waitress action.

Lady in red said...

Bournemouth...... not my fav place

got my only ever parking ticket there
and last yr my only ever speeding fine

on the other hand I have family there.

coincidences I notice them all the time

isabelle said...

I think you should quote Nietzche to Hippy Dave .......

''The irrationality of a thing is no argument against its existence, rather a condition of it.''

I also think you are obsessed with barmaids.

Huw said...

This post has led to me campaigning for my gang's weekly Thursday Piss Up to transfer from the Bricklayers to Bavarian Beerhouse, if only for one week. I can pass a message on to the Austrian if needs be.

Fussy Bitch said...

Someone mention tits in corsets?

Oh, and the girl in Bankok? She wants you bad to stalk you that hard!

VI said...

I always find I get more drinks and tips given when I'm wearing a low cut top. (Don't ask how I got £35 in tips last weekend!)

fwengebola said...

JDV ~ You make it sound as if I wasn't alone at the time.
WC ~ Well, Mr & Mrs Ebola named me Fweng, Apache for 'Disorientating Headache'.
I am not having sex with my stalker.
LFM ~ *Sob* Waitress Action! I love those Dirndls.
LiR ~ I have family in Bournemouth too... Spooky!
Iz ~ Dave only appreciated Aldous Huxley references, and even then, he only pretends to get it. (Mmmmmm, barmaids.)
Huw ~ Absolutely, utterly go there. Except a) You're likely to get very drunk, b) And be more out of pocket, but c) You'll be less hungover due to purer Aryan beer and d) Will have tears in your eyes all night. Say hello to my waitress. She had hits with 'The Boy Is Mine' & 'First Night'.
FB ~ OHMYGOD! It's her. Now that would be weird. And phenomenally creepy.
Vi ~ Barmaid? Rwwooowwwl.
(God, I have to get a life.)

luna said...

Where's the Weinstaub place again,I too want to milk my mammaries for all they're worth!
Why don't you apply there as well as a sausagemaker,there's a slot for you for sure!A chance to ogle the globes for free.

Did you mean to say you went halfway round the world to where the Most Enlightened Being of All dispenses his Sacred Wisdom? And you waited for him in a bar but he stood you up?
What bad luck!

fwengebola said...

Milk your...?
I'm sure I've read this comment before. I actually waited for Dalai as he drove past in a canary yellow Mercedes. Very enlightened.

luna said...

My apologies for the cloned comment.I had just finished drinking a pint of fermented milk.
Not from my own production.

The Dalai Lama drives a flash Mercedes?
Invite him over!

fwengebola said...

He didn't drive it. His minion did. Still seems like a nice bloke though.