The Pictures got smaller
Last night was Brenda’s Curryoke night. She appeared at the curry house like Gloria Swanson – a spangled top, a black feather boa, heart shaped sunglasses (it was dark) – she was like a faded starlet stylised by Primark.
For some reason, I thought I’d be daring and show off my curry-stripes by ordering a quail jalfrazzi. Curried quails. Quails in curry.
The wine started to flow and Brenda and Ian got louder and louder.
I attempted to eat my meal, while keeping up with the conversation, by chasing the two, whole quails around the plate with my knife and fork. Brenda loudly said, “It looks like a couple of budgies wrestling in mud.” HONK! HONK! Honk. Honk. HONK! HONK!
People around us looked nervous as she laughed. Half masticated chicken tikka spinning in her mouth like a laundrette on over-drive.
Later we were in the karaoke bar drinking cocktails. Ian switched up his flirting by a few gears, “Do you fancy a ‘Long Hard Screw’?”
Brenda Honk, Honk, and Honked so much she ran to the loos to throw up.
Ian danced like a dad at a wedding, playing air guitar to The Darkness, “I love this. Hard Rock. I like it Hard.”
Brenda got on the stage and sang ‘Like a Virgin’, flossing between her legs with the boa.
Vomit and sequins glittered in the spotlight. My life-coach has lost a bit of credibility. I’ll never think of her in the same light ever again.