20 May 2007

— thinking too english —

"I think there is LSD in the water," mused my Swiss friend Boris, while we sat in the Red Fish Grill.

I gulped down the contents of my red plastic glass and waited expectantly. My brother Eugene watched me with intrigue. I felt it was merely water, but couldn't be certain.

Suspiciously, later that evening, having glutinously guzzled down pitchers in Mike's Place Bar and RezAvoir, I headed out alone to The Royal and left there arm-in-arm with a tubby French Canadian girl.

Discovering her tent was erected some way out of town, I suggested she spend the night in my room.

On entering my dorm room she exclaimed, "Aw, non non!"

"Something the matter, my sweet?" I asked, patting her fat little hand.

"Look at zis!" she replied, pointing an insolent finger towards Boris and Eugene, who were sleeping soundly in the adjacent bunk beds.

"There is some problem?" I frowned.

"I cannot sleep wiz 'em 'ere."

Boris' car keys sat invitingly on the side table, and before I had fully thought the thing through, I found myself borrowing them and heading out into the streets.

"Here we are, mon angel," I smiled, beckoning her into the backseat.
"People can see us!" she argued, pushing away my advances.

I craned my neck to see out of the car window and into the hostel.

"What's that you say? People are watching? Who? I doubt that very much, my love."

She raised a finger to the window and I found myself gazing horrified on the figure of Eugene, perched by a second floor window.

"Drive me somewhere quiet," she urged.

"Drive?" I said, shocked.

"This is your car, non?" she asked.

"Yes, of course, madam," came my immediate response.

"Then you must drive it," she insisted.

Perturbed, I got into the front seat and attempted to drive Boris'
car. Under the influence only alleviated any fear involved in driving it, but did nothing to improve my driving skills. Halfway down the street, I swerved to avoid an oncoming car.

Boris was furious the next morning. "I saw you from the hostel window. You was driving on the wrong side of the road, through the city centre and without headlights." He shook his head in disbelief.

"Bloody bastard English!" he kept growling.

It seemed I was suffering from a shameful symptom common among the British—I "think too bloody English." I fear I may never be cured of it.

All morning Boris was as foul as lime pickle. He was intent on punishment being administered. "Should I flatten his nose or put a kick in his groin?" he asked Eugene.

Eugene didn't need to think for long. "I can definitely recommend the boot in the groin."

I am not certain, but it is my belief Eugene wanted to administer the kick himself, but his tan Hush Puppies were one of a kind and probably not sufficient to shatter a testicle.

Leo Lichy is the pseudonym of a former newspaper journalist from England, who has lived and worked in Canada, Australia, and now resides in the US.

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