TaintedGuava

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Eating chicken wings with a prostitute, hardly a euphemism but an actual evening that occurred, in yet another unexpected random London night. Anyone familiar with what sights and sounds Kilburn High Road has to offer, especially after dark, will understand and possibly appreciate the circumstances and events that could unfold when hanging about long enough.  Besides the wall to wall vomit and the familiar vagrant shouting, "hey bruv, got any change?" It wasn't unusual for me to have another adventure, except this night may have been the most interesting. With a dead mobile phone, I stood at the bus stop at 12 am waiting for that damn bus, which now and then gets cancelled or rescheduled for no reason, and this night was no exception. It's famous for being the most unreliable route. As I stood waiting and being lied to by the automated bus schedule, another 15 minutes went by. A woman approached the bus stop, she stopped to look at the signboard

It was December. And I was bored, fed-up and had absolutely nothing to do, as the world was about to shut down for the festive season. Out of frustration, I vented to a friend of mine who suggested that I should just work behind a bar for the holidays. She promised I would love it. Me? Behind a bar? I had never so much as poured a pint of beer, let alone served someone before. That would not work for me; but I mulled over it for a few days and thought, fuck it, why not? Ok, I lie, I was a "bartender" once when I was 18, for about 24 hours in a seedy little pub. Far from quaint, it did, however, come complete with the vomit-on-the-floor motif, the drunk pillock in the corner, creepy lampshades, a dirty dog with a limp and the convenient wall-to-wall ashtray. The owner, a crude little man, by the name of Don, decided to come in that day and fire everyone, including the managers, kitchen staff and of course, the bartenders, all for being "useless bastards".