Last night I went out with Simon and John for curry in town. The Chicken Balti was really nice, the restaurant lovely and the company very good. My fellow diners were not so great.
A party on the opposite table were having a series of heated debates, talking so loud, that everybody in the restaurant could hear their conversation.
Fuelled by copious bottles of wine, the discussion hit a racist tone, leading us to believe it was a BNP AGM. It was so bad, they made Hitler sound like Martin Luther King.
I later learnt they were not racists, simply morons, who laid into everyone from “ginger tossers” to “fat, overweight twats”.
It seemed that the table of drunken upper-class toffs had a strong hatred for any human being not in possession of 3 Bentleys, a pony and the ability to talk with a punnet of plums in their mouth.
We left before them. I was tempted to say my goodbyes. I didn’t know them, but after having their whole nights conversation thrust upon my ears, I felt as if we had been part of the same gathering.
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