Thursday, April 05, 2007

How Low Is A Chinaman

My departure from The Midlands began with a drunken Chinaman.

Ying-ki, one of my oldest friends, and son of the owner of the second best Chinese restaurant in Uttoxeter, decided we should celebrate my leaving with a drink and a curry.

Imagine my horror, then, when by 9.40, despite us leaving the house at 7.30, Ying-ki was so pissed he'd stopped making sense:

"If you....put the cheese....where's my shelf......fucking......stop laughing!......I want socks for Tango...any kettle...any kettle will do as long as its.......and there were these wasps...get me some wasps"

Upon my request "Mate, we HAVE to go", he stood up, swayed for a second, looked confused like someone had asked him to divide 22 by 7 and then toppled perfectly like a felled telegraph poll between two tables.

"I'm so sorry" I said to the bloke on one of the tables, tugging at Ying-Ki's dead weight .

"Is that Ying-Ki from the Capital Chinese Restaurant?" he said

"Yes" I replied

" I hope he's not cooking my fucking chow mein tonight" he said.

On the way home, Ying-ki had sobered enough to conclude "I've made a twat of myself" and then proceeded to be sick all down his own fence.

And I never got a curry out of him.

2 comments: said...

I really hope this story is true as it made me laugh. Out loud. Now imagine me trying to explain this microcosm of your life to my batty Italian mother.


Father said...

Giacomo, It`s Philip`s dad here. I promise this is true. Ying-Ki is not noted for his ability to weather the Red Wine Onslaught Storm