Prostitute yourself for charity

Last week was quite a hard week, and Friday night I did some overtime to finish off an account sale (imagine entering six pages of ISBNs, making sure you make no mistake with the amounts and quantities, otherwise you have to start over again and it’s really gonna fuck up your stock. Yes, it sounds as fun as it was! But I was in the zone, man! I was in the zone!).

Needless to say, I needed a good drink, and since we had been sold raffle tickets for children in need, I just thought I pop up to Dylan’s after work, spend my last fiver on booze and see if I won the jackpot. Hah.
Dylan’s was heaving. Loud annoying dance music, butchered remakes of classic 80s songs, lots of girls dressed like 1920s prostitutes (hey, it’s Bournemouth, don’t expect too much!) and a guy who got his head shaved for charity. Or just his head shaved. Fuck knows.
Thankfully I had some proofreading to do, so I sat down on a counter somewhere with my booze and my paperwork. Well into a few pages and near the end of my first glass, this guy comes up to me. “Hey, you alright, you look all lonely and sad.”
“It’s just my face”, I said. “And I am just havin a lonely drink by myself because I’m pathetic like that.”
Well, I thought he was just being nice, so I tried to keep the sarcasm at a minimum. But then he really pulled it off.
“Do you know what’s going on here tonight?”, he said, in a slight sales pitch that made me suspicious. “Naaaah...” I said.
“It’s the Bid for a Date night!”, he said enthusiastically. “And this young friend of mine”, he presented a young chap who perfectly fit into the category of all I despise about Bournemouth boys, “is one of the candidates to be bid for. How would you like a date with him?”
The prostitute smiled like a right smarmy git.
“Oh, so you aren’t trying to be nice, you’re just trying to pimp that guy!”, I said. “Well, thanks a lot!”
“Well?”, the Pimp asked.
"Alright..." I turned to the prostitute. “Go on then, sell yourself!”
Smarmy git in a shirt, gold necklace, boyband-style hair, clearly thinking he is God’s gift, cocked an eyebrow and, with the gesture of an aging, used-up model presenting fake jewellery on QVC, he said smugly “Do I need to?”
“Well, yeah!”, I said, flabbergasted at his narcissism, and he, vastly insulted, cosmo male model hissy-fit-esque, wandered off.
Bournemouth men.
I'll just buy a rabbit. And adopt, after all.