Enero 31, 2003

I walked by a dougnut shop this morning, as I do most mornings (they're rather ubiquitous in this city of yours), and my mind was suddenly overtaken by a memory of many years past. As it's a rather amusing tale and involving our one and only King, I thought I'd share it with you.

King and I spent a summer in England together about five years ago. Not a lot of people know that, but it's true. Anyhoo, we were staying out in the Home Counties, those provincial regions that hug the circumference of London town. One beautiful summer's day, we arranged to meet our chum Leonard in the Metropolis. We arrived at around lunchtime and proceeded to wander around the city in an aimless yet enjoyable way for a number of hours, chatting, gawking and cavorting as three lads are apt to do. At some point it was decided to stop for a pint, a harmless past-time done throughout Christendom from time immemorial. We found a nice little boozer somewhere near Covent Garden and sank a few, slaking our self-induced thirst. A gaggle of around seven people sat down beside us, plonking an enormous pink plastic bag onto the table. Emblazened on the side of this bag was "Dunkin Doughnuts". I had been in England for about nine consecutive months at this stage, and I must admit I was rather staggered by the sight of a dougnut purveyor's goods in such close proximity to me, as back then doughnuts weren't often found in Merrie Olde Englande. Clearly King was feeling the same way because he tapped the nearest girl on the shoulder and asked, "Are those doughnuts?". Now, perhaps the fact that the enormous pink bag screamed that it contained doughnuts answered his question for him, but the tone that this female used in her answer of "yes" was uncalled for and not very sporting at all in my opinion. King, judging by the look in his eye, was feeling spurned and insulted. Leonard and I attempted to pick up his spirits but to no avail, so we left King stewing in his own juices and conversed between ourselves. After a few minutes, King kicked my leg under the table, and lent in towards me. In a consipratorial whisper he said, "prepare to run". Before I could say, "why?", King had leapt to his feet, knocked his stool over, grabbed the enormous pink plastic bag of doughnuts and made a beeline for the door. I was fast on his tail while Leonard, not hearing King's warning, glided gracefully from his seat, bid the adjacent table a good night, and sauntered calmly from the pub. Or so it seemed to me as I chased King down the now darkened street to the tube station, where Leonard eventually caught up to us a couple of minutes later. We now realized that the snotty table hadn't sent anybody to retireve their doughnuts so King was well-pleased with his efforts. Leonard and I were mightily amused by his hijincks and told him so. We separated and King and I made our way to the train station to catch our ride back to the Provinces. The train ride was a picture of communal bliss and solidarity as King walked up and down the train feeding his fellow travellers the four dozen doughnuts liberated from some surly youth workers at a pub in Covent Garden.

Ahhhh, memories...

Posted by Sting at Enero 31, 2003 01:27 PM

They were delicious alright. But there were so many of them. We ended up throwing out about four dozen two weeks later.

Posted by: king on Febrero 3, 2003 10:30 AM .

Yeah, I remember that whole thing. I remember it so well because I was 4th in line to have my penis removed, pubic hair waxed and estrogen pumped into my system. What a long summer that was...but things are much better now.

Posted by: Gene on Febrero 3, 2003 11:14 AM .

I seem to remember it being pretty damn warm that summer as well. Those doughnuts were absolutely revolting by the time we tossed them and the whole kitchen had that sickly sweet feeling in it for ages. Lovely.

Posted by: Sting on Febrero 3, 2003 04:16 PM .

I was so broke that I was eating them for lunch for a while. Every day I'd hump it down to the Tesco's, spend 4 quid on smokes, another 3 on best bitters, none on food, and when we could find it -- and we did -- the rest on weed and lion bars. Photographs of me at the time reveal a less than rosy complexion.

Don't know what the fuck you're talking about Gener.

Posted by: king on Febrero 3, 2003 07:26 PM .

Don't play dumb King-er. You know exactly what I'm talking about. That was the summer you and me picked up that Chinese whore in Soho. When she turned out to be a guy we beat the living shit out of him. We made him vomit for hours and then you shaved his balls to prove a point.

Posted by: Gene on Febrero 3, 2003 10:52 PM .

Gene, you're the one playing dumb-dumb-dummerer. Me and the Chinese whore beat the shit out of you.

Posted by: king on Febrero 4, 2003 02:55 AM .

I always miss out on the beatings but I'm always the one who picks up the pieces, calming the two of you down after your days and nights of sick fun.

I reckon the dog ate better than you that summer King. "The dog will eat its food". Despite your far from rosy complexion, at least you didn't go to a wedding, drink seven ports at the end of the evening on top of the dozen wines and beers, smoke a joint, vomit on yourself in the doorway of a sixteenth century school, pay thirty pounds on a cab to get home, wake up to a man and his wife rubbing your feet with baby lotion three hours later, and then think, "hell, I think I'll drink more, now that it's 3 a.m. and eveyone's home again". At least that didn't happen.

Posted by: Sting on Febrero 4, 2003 10:10 AM .


Posted by: king on Febrero 4, 2003 04:45 PM .
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