Harsh My Buzz

I went for a drink in town a couple of years ago.

Covent Garden. Christmas. I know it was the festive season because whilst waiting for my friend to arrive, I’d sat in Starbucks and nicked a plastic snow-flake from the window, intending to give it to my neighbour’s 11 year old son but actually I stuck it on my kitchen window at home and it made me smile every time I saw it. I told myself you don’t miss what you’d never had and he would grow out of stuff like that sooner or later (though I never have).

My friend and I went to Generic Gastropub and chatted about this and that. He was part Masai, hailed from South Africa and had lost a sister to the AIDS epidemic we don’t concern ourselves with too much except for every now and then when the Pope arrives in the UK; we rail at the hypocrisy of the Catholic Church and wear "Jesus is coming - look busy" T-shirts. Then he goes back to Rome and we go back to forgetting our outrage, not sleeping with Africans and reducing world issues to comedy sound-bites on social networking websites.

The evening was pleasantly spent meandering through age-old topics: we put the world to rights, we made resolutions, we started a revolution in between Mojitos and glasses of red wine.

The occupants of the table next to us had finished their meal and were arguing with the waiter over the bill. Voices were rising, indignant protests were made. 3 gays and a fag-hag were irately insisting to the waiter that they’d never ordered what he’d brought them and they weren’t going to pay. The waiter showed them on his pad where their words belied their actions. He politely pointed out to them that not only had they most definitely ordered the food he’d brought them, they had literally eaten most of the evidence in dispute too. They continued to bully, berate and belittle him loudly, and threatened to call the manager over to sack him.

I leaned over and said, “excuse me. Sorry for interrupting this, err, discussion however there is no need to speak to him - or anyone - like that.” The woman looked me up and down scathingly, threw me a passable withering look, and spluttered, “what's this got to do with you?"

To my immense delight, I was able to say, whilst giving it my best ghetto circular arm wave – one hand on hip, the other arm extended, palm-up, snappy head movement and syncopated shoulder shrug;

“I think you’ll find that it has everything to do with me when you’re harshing my buzz.”

I was outstandingly pleased with myself for finding the exact perfect right thing to say at the exact perfect right time and not weeks after the fact as is my usual tendency; I held my wide-eyed, huffy and righteous pose with glee.

I was rewarded with 4 jaws-dropping, my friend chuckling to himself and a smile of gratitude from the waiter. The manager moved us to another table so my buzz would no longer be harshed, apologised for the inconvenience and gave us a couple of drinks on the house.

I have no idea if the bill was paid in the end. If this were a US sit-com, they would have felt suitably chastened, and would then set-up a foundation for waiters who have been chewed-up and spat out by mean gays and their entourage. However this is London life and most likely they paid their bill, pointedly made a show of leaving NO tip and swept out in a clutter of handbags and attitude, complaining bitterly about their treatment and indicating that they would tell everyone they know not to EVER go there AGAIN. PAH! I'm sure that Generic Gastropub can cope with the potential loss of 26 covers in a city of 8 million.

I may put Don't Harsh My Buzz on a T-shirt so next time the Pope comes, we can all wear that instead.