It's no surprise that I ended up at the Dodgy Roger last night.
With all the shit I've been through I've gravitated towards its
constant awesomeness like a small Chinese kid gravitates towards
chess. Or Maths. Or Alsatian sex.
The thing about my favourite drinking establishment is that unlike the
majority of drinking establishments found in the Parkhurst area you
cannot judge this book by it's proverbial cover. I promise, this is
something you don't want to do. Sure the tomato sauce dripping down
the walls resembles a murder-scene; sure the cap of the peri-peri
sauce is caked closed and full of oily fingerprints; sure the chairs
don't actually have any sort of material on them, but really, it's
something you have to look past.
For the 2 hours I was in the Roger's company, I had a fairly fantastic
time. I met some Italian dude (with enough oil on his skin to open his
own KFC franchise) trying to convince me that he's a Soapie star back
in Rome. He had a friend with him who if he was 3 months older
would've been in serious trouble. I mean serious. Like the end of The
He asked me for my number but I thought it prudent to decline the kind
offer. It helped; looks like my latest bout of The Loser's
won't last too long.
Didn't help with the horniness though.