He looks at me intensely
|
Eyes contact lens green with artifical envy
|
Cocks his head and fixes me with a condescending stare
|
Flicks his bleached, blond tipped hair
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And theorises thus:
|
|
"You know what I reckon?"
|
Pause for effect
|
Adjusts his tackle as if it's semi-erect
|
I feel I'd better give him what I know he expects:
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"What do you reckon?"
|
|
A hand on the shoulder
|
An avuncular wink
|
Sips his lemon drink
|
Spits out the pips
|
Hands on hips
|
Licks his lips
|
Like a wolf near a flock
|
Yet again adjusting his fantasy cock
|
He delivers his philosophy
|
|
"I reckon it don't matter
|
It don't mean squat
|
What you earn or what you got
|
Or the style of your hair
|
Or what you wear
|
It matters not
|
|
"Like what do you care
|
That I live on a hill with views of the beach?
|
That my chick and my dogs have an en-suite bathroom each?
|
That I've already reached my first million and I'm only 26?
|
You're as thick as two bricks
|
If you think you can fix
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What is broke in your life with money
|
And the funny thing is
|
And I shit you not
|
That I'd give it all up like that!"
|
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He leaves me to ponder his wisdom for a bit
|
And with a click of his fingers
|
Beckons the blondest, bimbo-est barmaid
|
And grinning ridiculously
|
Orders a G and T
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And a beer, for me
|
And before I can escape
|
He's back saying,
|
|
"Cos mate, the thing is
|
All of that crap
|
It's all superficial
|
It's all just a front
|
Anyone can be a rich cunt
|
But the thing we all want
|
Can't be bought with dosh
|
You know what I mean, boss?
|
Cos you don't give a toss
|
That when I want to get slim
|
I've got my own private gym
|
And a personal trainer called... Danielle or fuckin' Darlene
|
She's got tits
|
Like those chicks
|
In Ralph magazine
|
|
"And it's not like you care
|
That I own the controlling share
|
Of an overseas company
|
That builds accounting software
|
It matters not one bit
|
I mean who gives a shit
|
That I earn six hundred grand
|
And drive a brand new land rover?
|
You know I would hand it all over like that!"
|
He pauses for a beat
|
Long enough for me to retreat to a seat
|
And sit, elbow on the bar
|
And contemplate this guru
|
With his white teeth and big car
|
And ponder silently my belief
|
That genius comes in many a form
|
And that this postulating, peroxided porn-star prick... ain't one of them
|
|
My specultaion cut short
|
As he reforms
|
Like Terminator II
|
And before I have time to abort
|
He descends upon me and snorts,
|
"I guess what I'm trying to say
|
In my own little way
|
Is that I reckon that musos and artists and that
|
Well, I reckon they're great
|
I know some people reckon you guys just sit on your bums
|
And don't get out of bed til the pizza man comes
|
And smoke cones
|
And take crack
|
And whack off all day
|
But I don't care what they say
|
And I don't listen to people
|
Who say that all actors are gay
|
Not that I don't think that's OK
|
As far as I'm concerned
|
Although it's not my bag
|
If you wanna be a fag
|
Be a fag y'know?
|
Who am I to say
|
Where you come
|
And where you go
|
In the privacy of your own homo?
|
Ha-ha! Homo!
|
Ha-ha! Homo!
|
Ha-ha!"
|
He's shitting me now
|
|
And my eyes start to glaze
|
And through the haze of my anger
|
I notice his G and T is gone
|
And he's starting to dribble
|
As he dribbles on and fucking on
|
"But you musos are alright
|
I don't know much about music
|
But I know what I like
|
And I reckon I'd throw it all in
|
To be like you Jim." "Tim."
|
"I mean you might be poor in monetary terms
|
But what you earn spiritually
|
What makes you what you are
|
Just means so much more
|
Than what you earn from a really nice car
|
Or a tennis court
|
Or holidays in Greece
|
Or a house on the beach
|
Or stock market shares
|
Or twenty-one pairs
|
Of Calvin Klein undewear
|
Do you understand? You are a wealthy, wealthy man
|
I mean I don't want to piss in your pocket
|
But I've gotta say
|
Before I get on my way
|
That honestly, and I'm not having you on
|
I reckon on day you could play the piano as good as Elton John!"
|
|
The cops are still mingling
|
Though the crowd's shuffled out
|
I've got ice on my hand
|
Where my fist met his mouth
|
And although I explained
|
That it was |