My mate Adam came down this weekend from Bristol, and for Saturday afternoon we decided to go to the Durley Inn down at the beach. Dom came as well – it was his last day down here before he’s off to another medical trial (the phone monkey is dead – long live the guinea pig) to make an unchristian amount of dosh by giving his body to science. Man, the sums you can earn even make me weak, but my dad would rip my head off and poop down my neck. But I digress.
(haha... I keep making typos while I write this, and I had the $ sign come up a few times too often, how is that for subconscious slips??)
I had hoped to drag Geoff along as well, but the poor lad was probably still suffering the aftermath of his, mind you, well-deserved post-epic sleepless project binge, and in no shape to tag along anywhere for yet more fuelage.
You’ve got to understand, nothing – NOTHING – is probably funnier and madder than a rampage around the beach with these three lads.
Ads got us a bottle of wine at the Durley Inn, and I inspected the menu... and found the most bizarre thing.
Printed on the back, imitating the form of a circular stamp, it said
However, there are still gaps to be filled:
What the fuck is a quibble?
And what’s more, does NO QUIBBLE GUARANTEE mean that you’re guaranteed to get no quibble or that they can’t guarantee you that you won’t (or will) get quibble?
“What’s a quibble?”, I asked Dom.
Dom’s face distorted into a mischievous grin.
“It’s an insecty thing”, he said, “that likes to hide in food.”
“Weird!”, I mused. “I mean, it’s like putting up a sign in a bakery, guaranteeing you that you won’t find any dead wasps on your cake. I mean, that should be f***ing understood, right?”
(Mind you, by that time I was already tipsy. Plus, I kinda had a hunch that Dom was bullshitting me, but I found it fun, and also, none of the boys would tell me what a quibble really is. It’s probably something nasty I don’t wanna know anyway. Like, “we promise you that we haven’t wanked in the mayonaise”.”)
“So, if I went to the counter and tell them that I actually want a bowl of quibbles, they will just laugh at me?”
Dom and Adam giggled “Probably, yeah”, and I nagged them to tell me, but alas, a day on, and I am still no smarter. So we started drawing pictures of quibbles, and invented quibble menus, and in writing all this sounds really lame, but it was really funny, I promise.
Eventually we left, really tipsy, leaving a written complaint about the lack of quibblage, and headed to the town centre.
On our way back, we found the most British – and most random sign ever.
Just an interlude, it had to be put out there, you know. And we took random pictures and mini movies in the nearby arcade, where I apparently humped Blobby, hitched a ride with phallic-nosed Postman Pat, and had a fake spliff with a stoner rodent driving a cartoon car (not a good role model, if you ask me).
At the Moon in the Square, we ran into my housemate Charlie, her new treacle boyfriend, her friend Stella and their mate Lee, whom I immediately harassed (and stole chips off by use of incredibly clever arguments) because he has a babyface and looks a bit like the creepy kid from Godsent. We had a few good laughs, although, most likely, the lads were cross-examining Charlie later, asking “And you moved in with that freak??”
Needless to say, there was yet another hen night (meet the Bristol Bunnies, a bunch of mingers clad in the token mass-produced tshirts explaining their purpose, emphasised by playboy bunny ears, with the bride sporting a penis appendage hanging round her neck, surprise!, and two inflated condoms tied into her hair). I was tempted for a second to go and lick the condoms to see whether they had any flavour, and blow the penis-shaped whistle around her neck, just to see her face, but then I didn’t want to be hacked to pieces by her bridesmaids who were ferociously flirting with the toothless regulars of the Cheap Arms.
My bicuriosity has limits, you know. And I wasn’t drunk enough either. And obviously such ideas are clearly the bad influence of Adam and Dom, and following those is never clever.
We went home before things got completely out of control.
Today, also, for the first time in ages (and totally a useless piece of information) I had a nice huge steak. It was gorgeous. Sorry to you veggies out there, I just can’t do the non-meat lifestyle, I was raised carnivorous and blame the craving of meat on my parents.
I shall leave you in this incoherence with the creative outburst of Dom and Adam, induced by the mystery of the quibble.
Fear the Guaranteed No Quibbles
The degenerate mollusc
Speaks the truth
Never in my life have
I been more afraid
Of a nonsensical animal
Than the first
time I laid
Eyes on a quibble.
“The quibble is amongst the most imaginary of seabound mammals.” Adam S.