Читать книгу The World According to Vice - Vice Magazine - Страница 28

This morning I felt like a gold-leafed piece of shit. My diet of overrich food, cigars, brandy, and beer top-ups was clearly taking its toll. In an attempt to repair my discouraged body, I ordered some sushi for lunch. I ate it on the street, which was not very dignified, but I had a cigar for dessert. This time it got my head straight.

Disappointed with my lunch, I went to the city boy’s favourite retreat—the titty bar. Talking to girls makes me nervous, so strip clubs are something I have studiously avoided until now. But being an abuser of the weak and a champion of the commercial means paying to look at a vagina (and maybe even a butthole) or two on a Friday afternoon.

The Griffin is one of those pound-in-a-pint-glass sorts of places. Mixed in wonderfully among the motocross and snowboarding displayed on numerous massive screens via obscure Sky channels, surprisingly attractive girls disrobed to a Nickelback soundtrack. During one awkward silence I heard the blokes next to me say, “As far as sports go later in life, cricket really is the only option.” Unless it was a metaphor I didn’t catch, these guys didn’t have much use for naked woman gyrating to awful music. Turns out I didn’t either, so I went home and felt relief wash over me like a bucket of cheap lager.

Now that my time as a city boy was over, I loosened my cotton yoke and tended to my blisters, all the while gorging on free-trade biscuits and tofu. Being a capitalist pig is far too much work.