Although, apparently that should be “Sir Ben Kingsley”, as the pompous twat insists on being addressed… But that’s beside the point, the point is that last night, I turned INTO Ben Kingsley; not the lovable, stick-carrying incarnation of Gandhi, but the maniacal, expletive-shouting lunatic who makes such a worrying impression in “Sexy Beast”.
Good Friend in PR is here, you see – and after drinks in a bar, we went back to the friend’s house where he is currently billeted. And we drank, and we drank, and we drank – until 2.30am. On a Monday. This makes me a twat on any number of levels: most excitingly, on the level of a man who has to go to work the next day and doing anything other than sob, but I managed to supplement it with a couple of quite interesting versions of twattishness:-
- The twat who compares everything (unfavourably) to Shakespeare – the fact that everyone is used to this makes it no easier for anyone to tolerate.
- The twat who demands total iPod control and is not above ordering music in if it is missing (last night’s choice: “E Lucevan Le Stelle”, previous offences include Nina Simone and Kathryn Williams).
- The twat who slaps the table repeatedly, shouting “No! No! No!” like an unfortunate combination of the above mentioned theatrical knight and Amy Winehouse’s refrain in “Rehab”, as he shouts over everyone who’s trying to get a fucking word in.
- The twat who gets back to his Wife, who is understandably nervous as it’s 2.30 in the morning on a Monday, and her husband was “popping out for a couple of drinks”, not shouting his head off until the early hours of the morning, arming himself with a horrifying hangover.
