International Incident in Connemara Lounge

 

Early twenties, long fair hair, attractive, blue-jeaned; Dutch maybe. Camping on the beach, I'd say. Sitting with her travelling companion at the next table. 

He’s at the bar, shimmying, the local Ronaldo. Thirty-five-ish, pint in fist, massaging with his left a roll of  belly overflowing between t-shirt and jeans. Outlining a game-plan; the trio around him, “ gwan horse !”                  

Then full-sail on the open sea,  he crosses the floor to where she’s sitting.

 On the dance square he’s doing a jive-waltz-dribble sort of thing, breaking it occasionally to lob the odd word down her ear-hole. And of course there’s twirl, lots of twirl. The locals know the story, little smiles on their faces.  

Back at the bar, anticipation-pricked, he’s warming the lads; his shimmies becoming daintier, more intricate like. 

Now he calls another pint......and a glass. The glass crosses the floor, the pint too.

Stool patted, down goes the arse and it’s chat, chat, chittidy, chattedy,chit chat; belly massaged and then another pint. 

 

“Glass ?” 

“No thanks.”  

Back at the bar, collecting his pint, horn-filled, brimming. Rono, ya beauty! 

She sees her chance to bolt.  

“Hey........where the fuck……. ?” 

“Fucking bitch. Outa my way."

 

Thunders across the lounge,  he goes roaring out the door; and the boys scattered, astounded feathers behind him.