So, a few of us went for a meal last night at a brewpub not far from San Francisco international airport. One of my favourites, actually, and has been since I first set foot in the place.
I digress, but it seems to be a week for reminding myself that I'm not precisely a spring chicken any more (more of a crispy duck) - I've been going there for 15 years, give or take. Worse than that, its just a week (to the hour) that I was watching a band I've loved for 33 years play my favourite song of all time. The fact that they are still going (well, 75% of them) is proof enough to me that "No More Heroes" remains an inaccurate song title.
Anyway, back at the brewpub it was apparent from the off that it would be "one of those nights" as we marched in and - to the consternation of the waiting staff - demanded "a table for four and a half". Still, we were soon accommodated after a short sojourn in the back bar/billiard room in which Andy and I managed to obtain two of the nastiest pints of beer we'd encountered in a long time (soon rectified by switching to the ever reliable "Broadway Blonde"). Packed into a booth, we decided that it would be Andy's birthday today, and we dutifully informed our server of the fact that he had just turned one hundred and seven. This turned out to be a smart move, since they gave him a free desert. Next time we're here, andy wants me to take him to a Chevvy dealer so that he can claim to be a hundred and sixty-three and see if the give him a free Corvette. I cant say that its much of a spectator sport watching Andy pack in a fudge brownie (ooo-errr, missus) but the conspicuous consumption prize for the evening went to Graham, who ate anything that wasn't actually nailed to the table.
Anyway, a few ales meant that it was entirely necessary for me to head off to what the Americans euphemistically term a "rest room". Personally, if I want a rest, I'm not likely to do it in a place where the decor features more white tiles and stainless steel than the average post-mortem suite and which smells, distressingly, of poo, but t takes all types I suppose. Noticing that there was already a fellow in the place, I immediately took myself to the comfort zone furthest from him.
Isn't it weird how most blokes can instantaneously process the incredibly complicated rules of bathroom etiquette while half drunk (or worse) and single-mindedly bursting for a pee, and yet so few can complete a relatively simple puzzle like Rubik's cube in total sobriety even if given month of Sundays?
Anyway, I was irrevocably committed to the act of wringing out a kidney when a deep voice immediately behind me said "Hey Baby". Well, I was so shocked and disturbed by this that if I hadn't been busy doing what blokes do when standing in bathrooms I'd probably have wet myself. As it was, I performed the incredibly convoluted manoeuvre required to twist round and prepare to defend my honour, without actually splashing my boots, in mere fractions of a second.
Anyway, directly behind me was a guy, mercifully facing away from me, belt undone and jeans wide open, with his pride and joy in one hand and his iPhone in the other or, since this is close to Silicon Valley, maybe he had his pride and joy in one hand and was holding his willy with the other. The bloke was actually phoning his girlfriend while taking a gipsy's kiss. I mean, I can appreciate the art of multi tasking, but its not exactly romantic, is it? More to the point, he scared me half to death and came scarily close to experiencing a violent misunderstanding. I can talk the hind leg off a donkey, but even I'd have had a hard time explaining that to the local Peelers.
Clearly, the world is a weirder place that I give it credit for. Time to go home...
 Rhyming slang. Work it out for yourself.