Spotted At Beluga

It was Friday, which meant it was time for Some Other Guy and myself to have our weekly meeting down at Beluga at the Foundry, which consists of us getting hammered on their cocktails, whilst gorging ourselves on their sushi specials.

Have you tried it yet?

It's good.

It's so good I would probably have sex with it if I could, but I can't because I'm slightly intimidated by the sexual vibe it gives off. It's sexy sushi, and now I've used the word "sex" or it's derivative four times in the last paragraph, which probably means the staff at ForwardSlash won't be able to read this again.

Whilst staggering out toward the car park - where our Zimbabwean driver Ignacious sat patiently outside the car - you remember my personal assistant Ignacious? F*cking legend, although I have noticed a bit of attitude on his part since Zimbabwe slashed ten zeros off their currency - he just bought a penthouse flat in Harare thanks to the ten shoe boxes of coins he kept under my Klooftique couch. He used to live under that couch as well, but now he thinks he's better than all that. The other day when I paid him his wages, he insisted on a tot of Jameson, rather than his usual Three Ships. I mean REALLY now, someone seems to be acting above his station.

Anyhoo, I'm going off on a tangent here. Let's keep focus on the subject at hand.

We had just finished a very productive meeting, and as we both slithered our way toward the car, I noticed a familiar sight. The fuzzy hair, crooked smile and thievingly long fingers of the model on the window looked like someone I knew. Then it dawned on me, it resembled Some Other Guy, who was casually wadding on beside me.

"Some Other Guy," I screamed in delight, "isn't that you over there?"

He turned slowly, like the chick with the large breasts would do in a horror film when the guy with the hook is standing behind her, about to chop her head off, and said "Ja, it does sort of look like me."

We didn't have a camera with us, but luckily a photographer from the Daily Voice just happened to be coming toward us, and graciously agreed to take the picture. Then, using a fairly complicated procedure called "email", he sent it to us over the "internet".

"Howzat!" I said when I saw the photograph in my "Inbox".

"Not out." said the umpire, and then walked off to have a tuna sarmie.



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