Sunday, December 18, 2016

The Chinese Restaurant

I was in a Chinese restaurant one night. The only night. I would not think twice of going again.

I ordered chop suey. More like chopped sewage. I ate half, and then in disgust kicked up a right hullabaloo by starting with the waiter.

 A quick explanation with my Doc Martin’s, converted his precious sweetbreads into sweet and sour crushed cashew nuts and as far as I was concerned – that was that.

I would not pay, and simply walk out of the place - peacefully, quietly and with dignity. I was upholding MY rights to complain about the shit they had served me. I am an officer and a gentleman.

It was not to be.

Next thing you know, before I can finish my third liter of chinky sake, slittie eyes are swarming all over me. They pin me down to the table.
Of course I struggle. I am a former member of the BSAP. A highly trained killing machine – I would not go down without a fight.

And then, this insane looking gook type man with a tall white hat, strides towards me waving a bloody stained, huge butcher’s cleaver and in one swoop – hacks my right hand off.

‘Now, what do you think about that?’ The mad man screams.

Cool, collected, my mind sussing out the predicament. Picture this – my head squashed against the table. My eyes, staring at the rest of the chop sewage.  My last hand, still clutching a glass of chinkie saki.

I needed to respond with a stiff upper lip. Don’t let the Asian fuzzy-wuzzies even get a glimpse of our weakness – for give them a finger – they will take your hand.

‘Release me.’ I said, with great authority.

They did. I stood proud and tall. I would show them -
 ‘Would you be so kind as to give me my right hand, so as I can take home the left over(s).

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