Andy Brown is as vain an individual as ever there has been, as witnessed by his antics in the Woodside Inn, last Friday night. Salisbury’s prime nightspot was louder than usual, due to a load of revellers that had made their way up from neighbouring Tisbury. The Karaoke was in full swing, and thirty two year old Andy was in his favourite place: centre-stage, and lapping up all of the attention from a group of attractive twenty-something women that were ogling him. Was it Andy’s cover model looks, designer clothes, and tanned 6ft 3 swimmer-like physique, or his mediocre singing and vibrant presence that gained their attention?
His rendition of Suspicious Minds brought a raucous round of applause from the happy revellers, most of whom weren’t born when the song was first released. As he finished he made his way over to a table of four people; one of which was his on-off girlfriend, Lisa, a strikingly pretty woman with high cheekbones and big brown eyes, and whose dark straight hair complemented her size 10, 5ft 9 figure.
‘Thanks for getting the drinks in babe; my throat’s drier than a Witherspoon’s pub on a bank holiday weekend’ he said, as he leaned forward and gave her a kiss on the lips. She’s mine, hands off, he thought to himself, as he looked around to see who was looking.
‘Anyway, I was wondering what the inside of that designer purse looked like,’ he joked, as her face went a shade of pink that matched the colour of a new born puppies nose.
‘Whatever, you cheeky git,’ she grinned, before asking, ‘have you given any more thought to what we discussed last night?’
For Gods sake woman, give a bloke time to catch up, he thought, as he stretched out his long legs and savoured the eclectic aroma of sweet and bittersweet apples bouncing around inside the pint of cider in front of him.
‘Yeah, I’ve thought about it and we can book the holiday to Mauritius tomorrow,’ he hyperbolized, just in case anyone wasn’t paying attention.
He had a look of resignation about him; could it have been the thought of spending two weeks in the company of Lisa that gave him this look, or was it the thought of all that overtime he would have to do, at the garage, just to pay for it? His melancholy appearance didn’t last long, however, as he reminded himself that a man has to keep up appearances and that quality women like Lisa don’t do a fortnight’s holiday in a caravan park on the Isle of Wight.
‘That tasted good,’ he uttered, just as the DJ shouted his name to sing yet another Elvis Classic, Viva Las Vegas.
Just as he stood up and set off towards the stage, he tripped up and fell prostrate on the floor. That achieved the greatest laugh of the evening from the drunken crowd who were howling like the Roman populace in the Coliseum. ‘Oh, bo****ks he soliloquized, as he quickly sprang to his feet; ‘And that ladies and gentlemen is how to add dramatic effect,’ he said, through slightly gritted teeth, as he hastily regained his composure and pretended not to notice the tear in his jeans. God I’m good, he smiled, as he started to sing.