Poisoned Bint-ette

Memories of London characters, some were more endearing than others. Some I remember with great affection. Some, however, were so vile and insipid, that I can’t help but repress recollection of their vitriolic unpleasantness…

Best described as a little shit. A most disgusting foul mouthed loathable little shit – well, maybe a whopping great big shit then. “It” was funny, though. “It” made me howl with laughter at her delivery of some of the most disgusting and shocking rhetoric which knew no boundaries, nor was selective of targets…

There was no discernible figure, just a skeleton clad in boyish attire. “It” was caked with a plethora of badly chosen, badly applied makeup in extraneous quantities, and very, very big hair held together with lots of “gloop”, which if it were from an aerosol can would be responsible for hole in the ozone about the size of Hackney.

“You’re from Cornwall? (or Cawnwaw as they sort of say it in the big smoke) Don’t you all fuck sheep down there? I bet you’re old dear was a right fucking smelly woolly back, else yer old man wouldn’t’ve got a stiffy, right? That’s why my nan goes dahn there all the time, she’s got white hair and a crappy perm”

I knew she was 14 as her old man had told me so, though she insisted that she was 18.

“Shouldn’t you be at school?” I once asked – “Nah fuck that!” she spat, “..all the teachers are fat, gay, “peedos” druggies and Missta M****** jerks off behind his desk in class…”.

I knew the unfortunate Mr M****** as he’d drop in occasionally for a pint, and I’d concede that’s a fair accusation…

Her father was not a regular customer in the pub where I worked, but a familiar face as he was often out looking for her around the pubs or the 7/11 at about 11pm most Friday or Saturdays – he’d left his number behind the bar in case of trouble and had clearly reached his wit’s end regarding his “difficult” child. I was not aware of any other background, it initially seemed more prudent to steer clear of this horrendous creature and her broken old father as much as possible…

Regularly I’d find her sat by the bar at the start of my Friday night shift working in the pub, with a bottle of bud (probably bought from 7/11, though she swore that one of the rest of the staff had served it to her, and they all would happily serve her with alcohol on a regular basis, it was only me that was such a stingy c*nt) and it was usually down to me to kick her out, even though I’d struggle to keep a straight face…

“Gissa fag, girlyboy”, cradling her crumpled empty pack of 10 silk cut. She’d call me Girlyboy on account that I had long hair. Either that, or “Geezerbird”. My femininity also stretched me to be called “Mr Fanny” and not in a good way. That’s if she wasn’t calling me “sheepdip” after my cornwall connection…

“I fuckin’ hate you, you’re SUCH a c*nt” she’d regularly inform me, until one day I stole a line from some movie or joke or somewhere and replied “Don’t call me that”, “Why not?” she demanded, so I answered “I saw one the other day”, to which she was defused and reduced to a blubbering mess of tears, laughs and hysterics…

We’d often exchanged unpleasantries as I’d escort her out of the pub, and I’d stand outside and have quick cigarette to make sure she didn’t creep back in, and besides, she was most hilarious when drunk. I’d listen and laugh at the comments she’d make when passers by would stop and gawp…

“Don’t stand with your hands in your pockets, it looks like your wanking”, would be a typical taunt from her. Her grasp of filth and nastiness was always refreshing and uplifting……

I asked her once why she didn’t hang with kids of her own age “They’re all slags, only interested in cock, innit, and the boys just keep trying to fuck me…” fair answer I thought, much better to hang about in pubs annoying bar staff and the old spunkers who go there to drink themselves to death in peace…

“Is that your scrotum hanging out your trouser leg or you just pleased to see me?” She once shouted after one of the older regulars as he was off home after a good skinful of ale, “Lucky night for the missus? I’m sure the old girl’ll at home loves your hairy belly sweating all over her”. You get the picture…

Another instance, whilst queueing in the bank I’d happened upon being rather hungover. She saw me approached me, looked me dead in the eye and announced out loud in front of everyone present – “‘Oy oy! Geezabird ‘ere got laid last night!” followed by “Was he worth it?” to which I just had to collapse in fits…

Such was her charm.

The fun boiled over one weekend night, as I’d clocked her through the throng of punters and out of the big window to the left. She’d sat herself upon the railings by the side of the road and was swigging by the neck from a one litre frosted glass bottle which I was sure was that godawful Archer’s peach schnapps! Surprised anyone actually drank that sticky quagmire of a mixer, I made a mental note not to be about later if that lot came back up…

Kicking out time was the usual fun that night, and I was informed by one of the throng that I’d better keep my eye on “soppy little cow” as she’d been in drinking pints of export (carlsberg) all afternoon (BEFORE my shift, – I’d have booted her out).

One of my old mates, Jim, was in his 50s and had a brilliant example of a strawberry nose, I was chatting with him just as he was on his way out, when we were distracted by a very slurry…

“Jim? Why does you nose look like a fuckin’ baboon’s arsehole?” We turned round to see the poisoned bintette approaching. Jim let out a guffaw then sloped off miming a scarper…

“Good luck” he chuckled “you’re bloody well for it now, you are!”..

I heard the theme tune from jaws begin to rumble in my head as “it” approached in her worst condition ever, I could see by her attempts to focus her gaze upon the most obvious obstructions which she reached clasping them to steady the alco-induced earthquake going on between her ears…

“….and you’re a c*nt you long haired girlyboy sheep shagger” she dribbled and spat at me and clasping my shoulder. I looked about for support. I was on my own. Shit. I wanted to sneak off out back for a well earned fag after a hard shift behind the bar, but had to deal with this bollocks…

“….gimme a fag you pencil dick or I’ll tell ’em you touched me” blurted the personified disarray. I only had a filterless Galoises (duty free and heavy duty), charming, I predicted that this’ll end well, sheesh!

One incredibly smelly french cigarette made it through the mist of dribble and flying insults to rest in the corner of her mouth, it amused me to watch her following the flame from my lighter about with her impaired gaze. It was kind of lighting the old blue touch paper…

The flood gates burst open and the torrent began, I sat her down on the pavement slumped beside her holding her hair, which was so glued with hairspray I worried a bit would break off…

I’d signalled to one of my colleagues and requested the number of her old man from behind the bar. I dialled the number as she loudly sputtered obscenities in between gushes of Archer’s peach schnapps flavoured vomit. The call was answered by her Dad…

“I’ve got something of yours for you to come and collect – bring a bucket, and an airfreshner”! My attention was drawn to the rest of the staff enjoying the melé, who’d all received considerable abuse over time from the poor puking teenager.

When Dad arrived he scooped up the dribbling mess that was once his baby girl, made his sincerest apologies thanked us for our concern and help. I’m surprised at just what an intimate knowledge of his reproductive system she had as constant abuse flowed forth. He bundled her into his car with the bucket. I’d always wondered how doughnuts got their holes…

Following a weekend or two rest up from that damned girl, her being nowhere to be seen, business was smooth and easy as I made the final preparations to leave London for good. She must’ve had a monster hangover and a good grounding to boot as all was quiet, and I must confess, a trifle dull.

Then came my final pub shift on a sunny Saturday morning in late November, I’d prowled the pub and grown two tall stacks of empty pint glasses under my arms and had the damp grey cloth used to wipe the tables (and often, shamefully the ashtrays too) perched on my shoulder when guess who came storming in amidst a blizzard of expletives…

“Whaddya mean, your leaving? You prick!” That’s nice, I thought, there’s some sentiment in there after all. “You can’t leave! Place’ll be dead boring without you being such a stuffy old turd burglar…”

Me, speechless, gobsmacked…

“You is like the ugly slag dog bitch of a big sister I never had!”

At this shocking outburst, and showing no trace of any emotion on her face, she threw her elbows far around my neck and planted the worst example of a soggy auntie kiss smack on my cheek, turned and stormed off out the pub – and it didn’t even cost me a fag.

In a couple of hours I was en route to Paddington never to return. I would never hear from the abrasive poisoned bint-ette again.

One old contact said he thought she might have made it in to medical school, which is excellent as her knowledge of male human anatomy was capitally pukka…