Sunday, January 13, 2008
Pizza Girl In The All New 2008 'Wrong End of The Stick' Special Edition.
When naughty Nina left a message on my iPhone to join her for a night painting Little London red, I knew some crazy mad lunacy was heading my way. When Nina says “wear black” it always means some serious action.
We had been at Blenio’s Bistro with Biggins and gorgeous George Wimpey the night before. Since Nina’s lottery win we go there quite often, we have both fallen for the delightful charms of their French waitress. It seems the whole of West Hill is eulogising her talents..
Biggins, bless him, flushed with his recent jungle success splashed out and bought presents for all. George got an £890 cow hide trunk bought from Idlewild. (Biggins had always had an eye for a bargain.) Nina got a Butter Wizard bought from Tinkers. Simply plugging it in means butter will always be at a spreadable temperature. Nina was left speechless. I have to admit to being a little envious, that is until I saw my package. Wow! It had fourteen flimsy flashing bows. Wow! It was the only one in this country. Wow! Biggins had brought it for me from Australia. Wow Wow Wow and Wow! It was a motorised inflatable pool lounger with cup holders. The enclosed leaflet, translated from the Australian, listed a top speed of 3mph. The effortless, super-glide joystick control means “You never have to be out of the sun again”. Quite brilliant. Those Aussies, what are they like? A present like that really makes digging the patio up a serious option. Nina and I didn’t have any gifts to give, we never do. We both believe giving is the real pleasure and didn’t want to take anything away from Biggins as he had gone to such efforts.
Conversation was naturally a champagne-fuelled scintillating effervescent torrent. Gorgeous George had us in stitches with a comedy sketch about a property developer who actually changed her controversial design plans to a scheme that was sympathetic to local opinion. Biggins bellowed and belched at such an unlikely story. Nina announced that plans were afoot to build a new development opposite Treasure and Trash just along from the Bath Street pub, The Fat Strumpet. The development was to be “trendy duplexes with grass roofs and some offices”. We groaned in harmony. Offices instead of shops! How boring. Biggins bellowed and belched at such a silly idea.
“I ask you, what use is an office now everybody works at home?” someone said. Nina casually reported that the café JJ was for sale. Again.
“The Dials just doesn’t have bacon kind of people any more,” she sermonised. “Far better it should become a Tanning and Lifestyle shop or something, especially now that Dial-a-Tan has also closed.”
“I love lifestyle shops.” Biggy bellowed and belched once more.
“Far better it should become a Thai restaurant,” chimed in the French waitress, “then we will have four, and they could rename the Dials the Thai Quarter.” Not a bad joke for a French speaker, I laughed until I was nauseous, just to make her feel appreciated. Actually I had used the same joke at a dinner party three years ago but didn’t want to hurt her feelings by stealing her thunder. George thought it was hilarious, the dipstick.
We again talked about the world and everyone in it. That Leonard Cohen was reforming. That my neighbour the socialist, who owns the Outer Hebrides and writes children’s fiction, has, like “Teflon” Tony Blair, joined the board of a bank as an advisor for a paltry £250k a year. We speculated about property, salivated about cooking and fantasised about new year’s resolutions. Nina hoped to go into property development, for, as she put it, “her grandchildren’s sakes.” Nina hasn’t any kids yet, so this was forward thinking indeed. Respect. I declared an ambition to go into the American prime loan mortgage business, and Biggy was going to get a serious hobby to relax from his life. He was thinking he might collect the Build Your Own Railway magazine he kept seeing advertised on new year’s TV. The first edition is free and comes with part two. Week by week it apparently grows into a valuable plastic replica of the Brighton Belle. George remarked that it would take two years and cost about £526 to collect the whole series and that he would be better off spending the money on champagne for the rest of the night. Nina and I totally completely agreed and George’s trunk was filled with ice cubes and bottles of the fizzing elixir.
As if on cue, Steve Coogan’s Israeli-made lotus-schmotus screeched to a halt outside the new lighting store. Tin Drum eyes diverted agog. Steve and ‘friend-in-tow’ bee-lined our space. Coogan strode purposefully, kissed my lip ring and blubbered his thanks. Thanks? Thanks for not informing the Gutter Press about his beating at the hands of Melvyn Bragg at the infamous ‘Saveloy Party’. What does he take me for, a fantasist gossip? I felt bruised, lewd, abused. I daggered him with assassin eyes. He got the message, went the colour of a bus and blow-torched my iced gaze by introducing us to his ‘date’. A darling waif starlet called Winehouse. Biggins, of course, knew her from panto or somewhere; he nearly knows everyone in the country.
At that moment, Blenio’s open sign was reversed and our French charmster hurriedly escorted us down the mysterious staircase - at last its secret depths were to be exposed. Joy of joys. We were consumed by a seething maelstrom of pink-tied estate agents throwing shapes wildly on a packed dance floor. DJ Uncle Norman cooked his cauldron of beats for the wild crowd. This was the best kept secret in the whole world, the guests a Who’s Who of Dials shopkeepers. Florists, hairdressers, newsagents and post office clerks flirted dervishly with Polish parking wardens, bathroom salesmen and dentists. How we danced, how we laughed, and how we ended up sleeping in the derelict children’s hospital I’ll never know. Except. of course, that George, who owns the place, had a set of keys.
That was yesterday’s night of West Hill winter madness. Tonight I was all heeled up and reloaded for action. Adorned in a little black number, ready to paint the town red just as naughty Nina had asked. Then my iPhone beeped for incoming. It was Neen. Her text said, “PG can’t make it, gone to LA with S.C. Have left balaclava and spray paint cans for you by recycling. Have fun and don’t get caught.” What a silly Billy I was. How I laughed. Talk about getting the wrong end of the stick.
Press your red button now or drop into brightonpizzagirl.blogspot.com
We had been at Blenio’s Bistro with Biggins and gorgeous George Wimpey the night before. Since Nina’s lottery win we go there quite often, we have both fallen for the delightful charms of their French waitress. It seems the whole of West Hill is eulogising her talents..
Biggins, bless him, flushed with his recent jungle success splashed out and bought presents for all. George got an £890 cow hide trunk bought from Idlewild. (Biggins had always had an eye for a bargain.) Nina got a Butter Wizard bought from Tinkers. Simply plugging it in means butter will always be at a spreadable temperature. Nina was left speechless. I have to admit to being a little envious, that is until I saw my package. Wow! It had fourteen flimsy flashing bows. Wow! It was the only one in this country. Wow! Biggins had brought it for me from Australia. Wow Wow Wow and Wow! It was a motorised inflatable pool lounger with cup holders. The enclosed leaflet, translated from the Australian, listed a top speed of 3mph. The effortless, super-glide joystick control means “You never have to be out of the sun again”. Quite brilliant. Those Aussies, what are they like? A present like that really makes digging the patio up a serious option. Nina and I didn’t have any gifts to give, we never do. We both believe giving is the real pleasure and didn’t want to take anything away from Biggins as he had gone to such efforts.
Conversation was naturally a champagne-fuelled scintillating effervescent torrent. Gorgeous George had us in stitches with a comedy sketch about a property developer who actually changed her controversial design plans to a scheme that was sympathetic to local opinion. Biggins bellowed and belched at such an unlikely story. Nina announced that plans were afoot to build a new development opposite Treasure and Trash just along from the Bath Street pub, The Fat Strumpet. The development was to be “trendy duplexes with grass roofs and some offices”. We groaned in harmony. Offices instead of shops! How boring. Biggins bellowed and belched at such a silly idea.
“I ask you, what use is an office now everybody works at home?” someone said. Nina casually reported that the café JJ was for sale. Again.
“The Dials just doesn’t have bacon kind of people any more,” she sermonised. “Far better it should become a Tanning and Lifestyle shop or something, especially now that Dial-a-Tan has also closed.”
“I love lifestyle shops.” Biggy bellowed and belched once more.
“Far better it should become a Thai restaurant,” chimed in the French waitress, “then we will have four, and they could rename the Dials the Thai Quarter.” Not a bad joke for a French speaker, I laughed until I was nauseous, just to make her feel appreciated. Actually I had used the same joke at a dinner party three years ago but didn’t want to hurt her feelings by stealing her thunder. George thought it was hilarious, the dipstick.
We again talked about the world and everyone in it. That Leonard Cohen was reforming. That my neighbour the socialist, who owns the Outer Hebrides and writes children’s fiction, has, like “Teflon” Tony Blair, joined the board of a bank as an advisor for a paltry £250k a year. We speculated about property, salivated about cooking and fantasised about new year’s resolutions. Nina hoped to go into property development, for, as she put it, “her grandchildren’s sakes.” Nina hasn’t any kids yet, so this was forward thinking indeed. Respect. I declared an ambition to go into the American prime loan mortgage business, and Biggy was going to get a serious hobby to relax from his life. He was thinking he might collect the Build Your Own Railway magazine he kept seeing advertised on new year’s TV. The first edition is free and comes with part two. Week by week it apparently grows into a valuable plastic replica of the Brighton Belle. George remarked that it would take two years and cost about £526 to collect the whole series and that he would be better off spending the money on champagne for the rest of the night. Nina and I totally completely agreed and George’s trunk was filled with ice cubes and bottles of the fizzing elixir.
As if on cue, Steve Coogan’s Israeli-made lotus-schmotus screeched to a halt outside the new lighting store. Tin Drum eyes diverted agog. Steve and ‘friend-in-tow’ bee-lined our space. Coogan strode purposefully, kissed my lip ring and blubbered his thanks. Thanks? Thanks for not informing the Gutter Press about his beating at the hands of Melvyn Bragg at the infamous ‘Saveloy Party’. What does he take me for, a fantasist gossip? I felt bruised, lewd, abused. I daggered him with assassin eyes. He got the message, went the colour of a bus and blow-torched my iced gaze by introducing us to his ‘date’. A darling waif starlet called Winehouse. Biggins, of course, knew her from panto or somewhere; he nearly knows everyone in the country.
At that moment, Blenio’s open sign was reversed and our French charmster hurriedly escorted us down the mysterious staircase - at last its secret depths were to be exposed. Joy of joys. We were consumed by a seething maelstrom of pink-tied estate agents throwing shapes wildly on a packed dance floor. DJ Uncle Norman cooked his cauldron of beats for the wild crowd. This was the best kept secret in the whole world, the guests a Who’s Who of Dials shopkeepers. Florists, hairdressers, newsagents and post office clerks flirted dervishly with Polish parking wardens, bathroom salesmen and dentists. How we danced, how we laughed, and how we ended up sleeping in the derelict children’s hospital I’ll never know. Except. of course, that George, who owns the place, had a set of keys.
That was yesterday’s night of West Hill winter madness. Tonight I was all heeled up and reloaded for action. Adorned in a little black number, ready to paint the town red just as naughty Nina had asked. Then my iPhone beeped for incoming. It was Neen. Her text said, “PG can’t make it, gone to LA with S.C. Have left balaclava and spray paint cans for you by recycling. Have fun and don’t get caught.” What a silly Billy I was. How I laughed. Talk about getting the wrong end of the stick.
Press your red button now or drop into brightonpizzagirl.blogspot.com
