A pleasant dinner on Thursday evening at Brasserie Max, my bolthole in the Covent Garden Hotel, with two very close friends.
I have been in meetings all afternoon at my Soho club. It was a revolving door, one after another. I started drinking at 14:30, a bit late for me, but I am practicing restraint.
By the time dinner hits the table at 21:00, I am through half a bottle of Montrachet. The nectar is topping off the 8 bottles of Bitburger I consumed during the afternoon sesh followed by the 4 Bloody Marys at the bar before dinner, rather nicely.
I am fucking toasted.
The discussion moves to a mutual friend. For some reason I am a bit rantish. Must be high blood sugar.
“There was a time she wasn’t happy unless she was getting fucked by 10 large black cocks a week”, blurts out me.
I hear the sound of cutlery drop. There is an eerie silence at the table next to us. Two elderly ladies are looking up at me, shocked.
I am horrified. My pals are pissing themselves laughing. I hate it when I do this. My facade of an Edwardian gentleman has transmogrified into an Edwardian street urchin.
On my way out for a cheeky Marly I stop by the old girls’ table.
“I am so sorry, please accept my apology, I am horrified... can I buy you both a drink,” asks me?
One of the old girls responds in a lovely Scottish accent, “Now it is nothing we have not heard before,” cracking a wry smile, “we’ve been around you knooow.”
She went on to tell me how sweet it was that I offered an apology, and gracefully declined my offer of a drink.
The atmosphere was warming up. I thought they were going to ask me to pull up a chair and tell them more stories of fucking and big black cocks.
A little apology goes along way, even when it is an apology for fucking large black cocks.