Shaag In the Kitchen, Dildar in the Hall: St Sanjay Patel Averts his Gaze

Were you there? ¬†See, it’s difficult to remember. Andrea’s concord grape and juniper jam gin Molotovs, they sneak up on you from behind like a dirty uncle. Before you have time to understand, their fingers are under your elastic and Herb Alpert’s Tijuana Brass is tootin’ on the Bang & Olufsen. So, I mean, were you there? Was that you? I mean, it looked like you; but through the sapphire haze, faces meld, humanity renders itself a single porridgy whole. Was that your bosom we insisted on roughly manhandling, repeatedly, Shauna? While Ali looked on, concerned she might be next? And was that Jessica, lurking outside by that dubious SUV? Mike, were you trying to say something about your portfolio? Or was that you Brian or Andrew? And while we’re talking slurring Celts, was it you who was responsible for the half Elton John, half Flavor Flav character by the refrigerator, or indeed the bearded hobo who imploded on couch 1 before exploding all over the sidewalk? And was that Amy pulling up in a limo nary at midnight, beaming like a radiant Madonna with Chris and Aurelio in tow? And Emily scribbling blindingly on the blackboard, and Lisa and John with a vast brown paper bag and was that Linda’s long, slow shaag and Clint’s omnipresent Fernet? And was it you who brought the fucking mead?

The Unfortunate 11 pm Spilled Vindaloo Incident (Andrew Hetherington)

And was that really you Witold – an apparition three years in the making? And you brought Amy too? Not to mention you, Cary and you Esther, looking on in stunned amazement at the other Lisa’s febrile scrubbing skills? And that there looked not unlike Grant making out hard with Kursten, something not seen since the Bovina buried pig incident of 2009. And do you usually wear boys’ y-fronts, Nancy, and was that a reason to be slipping them over Micheal’s head? Marko and Rob: how was the Lisa sandwich? I presume you put it in a box to go when Pia returned from the Guggenheim? How was the humidity down there, Mark, when you were doing that untoward thing with Selwyn and an apron? And those babies! Babies everywhere, like so many fat, juicy maggots! India’s babies, Luke’s babies, lovely Constance’s babies, Yuko’s (absent) babies, Gemma and Andrew’s very nearly babies, Selwyn’s long-lost babies: and tender thoughts, not unlike malai kofta, for Taylor and her babies, doing it for real in the foothills of the Himalaya. Restless fornicators all! Geoffrey, was that your beaming visage muttering the word ‘lease’? Scott, Emily, Kit, were you not the opening scene from Macbeth, cackling over a hissing cauldron of tikka masala? Elizabeth and Marc, ever-so-slightly tardy and staring into pots licked clean of matar gobi? Marty, here, gone, here, gone, here with Lula, gone again. Darling other Marc, that couldn’t have been you because you seemed neither drunk nor amusing. And then others, people who looked like somebody but must surely have been somebody else, people who looked like somebody but might have been anybody, or indeed nobody.

And in the end, a glittering array of empty bottles, a Bangladeshi fog of war, Selwyn comatose on couch 2 in his My Little Pony jammies and Mithilesh Jha sweetly thumbing his tabla as the first glints of dawn sparkled weakly through Bell End’s stained glass …

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5 Responses to Shaag In the Kitchen, Dildar in the Hall: St Sanjay Patel Averts his Gaze

  1. Lavonda says:

    Book-marked, I love your blog! :)

  2. Katheryn says:

    Nice post.

  3. Benny says:

    Found you through Delicious. You already know I am subscribing to your feed.

  4. promoted jesus over rembrandt says:

    By the time US Royalty arrive in the dressing room, I am passed out on the couch with a jacket over my head and a half can of warm beer in my hand.

  5. mastasan says:

    oh dear!?

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