612
by sparky_Archive
Back in the office, the fire alarm has now stopped, and I am only slightly disappointed that my desk has not been incinerated.
Last night, I got sentimental about an old school friend whom I haven't seen for the best part of a decade, so I forwarded to him an obscene joke about child abuse that my brother had sent to me the night before, adding a "hello, how you doing, sorry we keep missing each other" type message. The joke was in two parts. After I had sent the second part, I received a reply from my friend's number to the horrible first part.
"I do not recognise your name or number. Please do not text me again."
My friend had evidently changed his number. I probably went white at this point before sending an apology. It really was a bad joke to send to a stranger. Haunted by visions of the recipient being the eight year old child of a policeman, and of my being sued for emotional damage and being put on some kind of register, I told this story by text to a writer friend who has warned me for a number of years that my sick humour would harm me one day.
My writer friend meanwhile read it to his companions, who I don't know, and who found this hilarious. He has a gift for hyperbole. He later called me and told me how he had been drinking with some socialist asian activist friends in a pub on Oxford Rd in Manchester.
Across from the pub was the Palace Hotel, which was surrounded by police. Curious, they come outside and out comes Tony Blair, complete with bodyguards.
My friend and his companions start screaming at him: "Warmonger! Get out of Manchester! Get out of Manchester!"
Then the people at the bus stop start joining in. My friend (with his gift of hyperbole) told me that the bodyguards looked genuinely scared.
"How did Blair look?"
"Just old, man."
The police come over to them and are surprising friendly and nice, but they ask them to go back into the pub. Yes, they acknowledge their right to free speech, but please go back into the pub.
Back in the pub, a bunch of white guys start verbally attacking them for this. My friend calms them down. The leader even starts getting friendly. But then Vikesh, who is a very tall and broad shouldered Sikh, comes back from the loo. Vikesh is the sweetest, funniest guy, but there is something about his size, manner and turban that winds up (evidently racist) people. The biggest white guy starts shouting "Fucking Pakis!", the barman loses his temper and throws them out, and it all fizzles to nil.
My friend was very happy and excited last night about taking the opportunity to shout at Blair after the latter's big farewell speech yesterday, and I was happy for him too.
Please go soon, Mr Blair.