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Post by Dave Besseling on Jul 17, 2007 5:22:50 GMT -5
GMT + 12 Oceania New Zealand North Island 41 17 00 S 174 47 00 E . WELLINGTON . The unease of caste comes to mind, sitting here on the balustrade overlooking the throughway. A spate of Speight’s signs flicker and bray to the lizard brain from rooftops not so far away. . But this gaff is classy, they barely let us in here, but we promised them we could drink. This wasn’t a lie. The two couples next to us is Brahmin black tie - just come from the theatre me should think. . Clipped salt & pepper beards and bowties for the lads, pearls and curls for the dames. They cringe at the pant-hoots and the codswallop being perpetrated below. Cultured eyes rolling at savagery in general. . Dr. Heagney spots, and brings to my attention, an incredibly drunk man sifting his way through the junction. 65 pints, I should reckon. A typical rural Kiwi egg, this one; work boots dragging, knucklish and unlaced. Decidedly lacking in geographically appropriate attire and socially relevant taste amongst these alligator logos and shouldered sweaters (sorry, jumpers) tied around the waist. . The doorman decides not to let him in. Insensate from grog the man feigns a kind of courage. The lads will have none of it and deter him from any more limp attempts at committing violence with a swift pirouette de l’homme, propelling him on his way to a kind of silence. And with what must have appeared to him as a dignified exit, the untouchable lummox proceeds to stumble into a bus-stop rubbish tip. . We clap and cheer at our own personal theatre. Dr. Heagney whistles. We find this hilarious, up here in our press-box. The man in the tux doesn’t find it to be so. . Well fuck him. We toast our overpriced gin and tonics and chock it up to a gouge akin to a cover charge, an admission for the Saturday Night Couretnay Place show.
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