Wahahaha. Oh my God. C and I, and her little sister S, went to the Jolly Roger last night for a toot. And got some crazy Italian mofos to buy us tequilas.
Well. We learnt how to say “bless your little cotton pants” in Italian. (Because he didn’t know what ‘doondies’ were in his mother tongue.) Like, whatever.
“Salute tua piccolo cottone pantolone.”
One's name was Vittorio, and was cute barring the Forza Italia blue shirt and excessive chains around his extensional limbs, being his neck and arms. Apparently he hails from Venezia and likes demi-French dames like myself, “eef only you-a let-a your-a hair-down-a.”
In true chauvinist, yet charmingly adept Itie, he asked me to let my hair out of its constrictive, yet practical ponytail so that he could imagine us having sex in Marseille.
You see, it’s not the ponytail, fratello. It’s the fact that you want to boof me in Marseille, which is France’s dubious little secret: it is a whoring slum.
So. A couple of tequilas and Italian vernacular later (I studied Italian 101 in first year, and the drunker I get, the more I can speak it, see.) “Vardo la bar, Casanova. Io voglio cinque (cheenkwe) tequilas per io e mie amiche, mio piccolo bicicletto. Ma salute tua cottone pantolone.”
(I’m going to the bar Mr Handsome. I want five tequilas for me and my friends, my little bicycle. (???) But bless your cotton pants.”
He said to meet him at Jolly on Venerdi. Or Friday. Um, no no, scusi, ma no.
Another highlight of the evening was when C, S and I were talking rather loudly, ok, rather at the top of our fucking voices about penis size, when I screamed “I haven’t had sex in fucking weeks!” at the top of my lungs round about the time the dukebox song had come to a formidable and sanctifying halt. I hid under the table, hoping and praying for someone, anyone to put on some Def Leppard, or anything that’s resembles white noise. Only to attract two Jolly Roger local 50-year olds to our fucking table (They’re there everyday - I know this because the waitress said so) and he thought because I hadn’t had sex in months means that I obviously am desperate to have sex with him.
Never has a decision been so misguided in his life.
I happen to like shtoinking my vibrator and bloody hell if I didn’t do with gusto last night on arriving home and accosting The Ant (actually Il Antoloni) with my newfound Italian dialect. Salute suoi piccolo cottone pantolone, Antoloni.
Sweet Darryl, when you’re not looking for it, every single dodgy man in the bar will, no WILL, hit on you, even when one is trying to have a fairly-clandestine conversation about penis size with one’s female friends.
PS: S says that a bent penis, is actually a fairly fucking fuckable penis. Apparently bent penii are great in the sack.
PPS: “How many have you had?” (screeched the disapproving Ant on my disruptive, whirlwindy arrival home – at a suitable hour mind you – 9:48pm)
Ant “Answer me you shit, you, how many have you had…without me!”
Peas: ‘Shit’…Zat would be…merdo…in Italian.
Ant: You shitfaced shit.
Peas: No. No sheetfaced sheet.
And then we watched TV.
I was woken at 2:13am by an sms from Ex S, who is currently on the Berlin leg of his German/Eastern Europe/Scandanavian holiday. It said:
"Doubt you really want to hear from me, but have to say I am missing you. Berlin is amazing and there are so many places and buildings that remind me of you. You would love this city! Dreading going to Cologne and Amsterdam, will be tough. Hope you ok. Love me x."
We did Cologne and Amsterdam together last year.
I miss Europe.