The Pakistani & The Jockey

I was weak with the hunger there the other day on my bike…

So I peddled into East Dulwich cuz I really felt like a fat juicy fish burger laced in that tangy mayonnaise and some bendy chips with tomato sauce. 

I went to a classy joint called “Favorite”.

Here it is:

-for what they call the Fishwich… mmmmm!  Pure Grease-Ball Material I know…

In keeping with my food, my hair was dead greasy and my clothes were mouldy.

I looked at the seating while I was at the counter and carefully planned my position of eating.  I decided I was going to sit with my back to the window and eat as privately as possible cuz it’s a fish bowl of a place and I’d be scandalised if I was spotted by someone I know!

I was up at the counter anyway, ordering the grub when this whipper-snapper comes in through the door.  He struck me as being a jockey in his build, a jockey of the urban kind though, the kind that has never set foot in a field.

So yer man orders grub in a cross between an Irish & an English accent. 

The Pakistani behind the counter takes his twenty pound note and started to scrutinize it; holding it up to the light and squinting. 

Then he produces his super magic marker and proceeds to scribble over the twenty pound note.  The marker doesn’t work, maybe it’s not supposed to, I don’t know but the Pakistani isn’t satisfied with it anyway and decides to operate on the twenty pound note.  He starts to rip the top bit where the foil strip is and then the bottom part where the foil strip ends.  He is still not satisfied with it’s authenticity and the jockey is getting visibly agitated. 

The jockey takes out an almerciful wad of £20 notes from his back pocket and tries to convince the Pakistani that all his twenties are the same.  While he does so, I notice he has a rake of tattoos; a swallow and some random illegible words & letters.

The Pakistani takes another few twenties from the Jockey and between the jigs and the reels they lose track of how many £20 notes have changed hands and the Jockey thinks the Pakistani has one too many of his twenties and this is going on as I am handed my fish burger. 

I sink my teeth into the soft burger bun, the top of it lovingly clinging to the roof of my mouth, as the Jockey’s blood level rises.

The Pakistani decides that he’s not going to accept the Jockey’s money and hands the original twenty back to him.  It’s all ripped and dishevelled and only half of it’s former self.

At this point, the Jockey flips his ABSOLUTE LID!!!

He rises up on his tippy toes & does all these high follutin’ jerky movements & points his finger while shouting all sorts of profanities.  He threatens to climb over the counter and give him a few slaps.  He tells the Pakistani to remember his face because the next time he sees it he will be chopping him up into tiny pieces.  The Pakistani is giving him lip back – Barking away… I’m caught in the crossfire chewing the cud.

The Jockey asked the Pakistani what time he was due to finish.  The Pakistani tells him and they agree Shakespearian style to meet and take this issue out into the night.

The Jockey tells him to make the most of his last few hours of life because he won’t see tomorrow.

I finish up my chips and head off home; hoping that I won’t be on Crime Watch the next night with my greasy hair and my terrible eating habits.