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".  ...

Chivalry is dead, and women killed it, so the saying goes. It would be simple enough to blame women exclusively for the death of romance, but that would be too easy. Nevertheless, it's no secret that chivalry is dead and it's dragging romance down with it into an abyss of meaningless, vanilla flavoured relationships and sexual encounters, leaving a wake of cold, unfulfilled loneliness. So who killed it? Simple, women killed it, but men fucked it up in the first place. Women killed it in the sense of expecting way too much from her man where his limited beliefs extended to sending her 10,000 roses to her office reception or presenting her with a new love-wand, batteries included, thinking that it's sufficient enough to show his romantic side. She also killed it with the fear. Fear of rejection and fear that her man may misunderstand her gestures of romantic advances towards him, fear that he may not actually appreciate her effort, him overlooking her eff...