There is something scary about packs of women of a certain age, 'having a good time'. I went to watch a very good singer in a bar last night with friends, but the bar was dominated by women with peroxide blonde hair and crepey cleavages exposed in spaghetti strap black dresses. They were wearing lots of make up, particularly around the eyes (it was admirable how they managed to keep their eyelids open with the weight of mascara) and seemed to be drinking wine by the bottle rather than the glass. They tottered around dancing (I use the term loosely) in front of the singer, but as the evening wore on, needed more and more support from assorted strapping men to stay upright and execute the spins. The singer cleverly intertwined a call for water into the lyrics of a song for one who was managing to look an alarming shade of green, even through the pancake foundation.
It turned into a bit of a wild evening, with furniture skidding sideways as a 64 year old ('isn't she marvellous for her age?') in leggings and flimsy, leopard print top collapsed into a row of bar stools, and two 'black and crepe' clones started snogging on the dancefloor. Some of the strapping lads were twirling spare clones around and the singer, always quick off the mark, launched into 'Mrs Robinson' (the irony of which was lost on most present).
The singer has a regular monthly spot there. Those of us with functioning livers will definitely be back.
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1 comment:
Sounds good to me, and my liver is just about still functioning. When does it happen again? ;) - Ed P
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