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Buy your own, goddammit! July 6, 2006

Posted by BiB in Uncategorized.

Darlings, I’m sorry to moan on about the same things over and over. Football should be done and dusted soon enough. The Russian has kept blog-worthy moments to a minimum of late. Good-looking men can wait for a post or two… But I just have to moan about cigarette-poncers once more. The blind flaneur did this long ago but then only went and deleted – yes, DELETED! A crime, as if bloggers should feel they have any right over their own words once they’ve been put in the public domain – the post so I’ve got nowhere specific to send you to. (Mind you, he and I also share an interest in hair.) (Modern heterosexual men make life very difficult for us queens you know. All that looking after themselves and crying. I hope they don’t complain when women don’t come onto them and gay men do.) (Your own flippin’ fault, innit? Go and put on some weight and burp once in a while.)

So, yes, cigarette-poncing. It’s peaking to coincide either with the crescendo of footballing events or the searing hot weather. It is seriously boiling. I am usually an enemy of shade but as I went for a 24-hour work-avoidance stroll yesterday, I did occasionally have to get the better of my stubbornness and trot to the other side of the street. Scorching. Anyway, tbf – the beautiful friend – and I met for a post-loss, consolation beer within seconds of the Italians covering themselves in glory. The atmosphere was still lovely, although I did, I admit, stick strictly to non-nefarious parts of Berlin, peopled exclusively by the type of heterosexual man described above. (Well, and women too.) I expressed, on behalf of English folk everywhere, my sincerest condolences to tbf. We drowned our sorrows the only way we know how, and were reminded that German men are quite obscenely good-looking. It was wall-to-wall totty. And determined festivation. But two beers into drowning our sorrows and we were ready to go and commune with our homosexual brethren.

The Ackerkeller – the link makes it sound much more unusual than it in fact is – is just about the only homo place I know in the centre of Berlin, and very nice it was too, with a nice selection of types. But then the poncing began. A handsome type came to poach cigarettes with unashamed brazenness. But vaguely politely. The two of us held out our different-brand cigarettes. I offered red Gauloises, all the while mentally squeezing the packet as school-friends used to do if one ever asked them for a crisp. Tbf held out Nil. (Not nothing. Nil is a brand of cigarette.) My packet was very sparsely populated indeed. Tbf’s was pulsating with Nil. Just as the suspense was about to kill all three of us, he plumped for one of mine, the sod, although perhaps I should see it as a moral victory. Maybe he secretly fancied me, although he did dash off once his thank yous were done and was never to be seen again, so perhaps I shouldn’t read too much into it. In any case, I put the incident behind me. Achieved closure. Moved on. Reinforced the thought that the good-looking, sporty, 25-year-old ponce had probably had to fight an almost irrepressible urge to kiss me… And then came the ugly mate.

I have quite the most extraordinary capacity to attract the attentions of the least desirable patrons of any homosexual establishment. I am reminded of the occasion a man in his third age struck up conversation with me in another old haunt. I struck back with gusto. His hand was on my groin before he could even finish his patently bollocks story about Klaus Wowereit – the gay mayor of Berlin – going to Berlin’s seedier gay bars incognito. So the ugly mate – drunk, leery and letchy – shuffled over. “Hast du eine Zigarette für mich?” – everyone’s least favourite chat-up line – he asked in a Spanish accent. This time I had the solo privilege of the ponce’s solicitations. I held out my depleted stocks without so much as a smile, and certainly not a word, and went back to conversing with tbf in English as loudly and bitchily as I could muster. The Spaniard lingered on, like a dog at a dinner table, with baleful eyes and what I think was meant to be a sympathy-inviting droop of the shoulders. I smoked as fast as my lungs would carry me for the rest of the evening. There was no time for conversation. It was a race against time to see if I could be the sole smoker of the remainder of my supply. I puffed for all I was worth.

Struggling for breath and making sure that my inhaler was trustily in position, I decided it was time to take leave of tbf and head home for the night. I was reasonably satisfied with a ponce-count of just 2. I drank in tbf’s beauty one last time, hugged him good night and went to make my way into the boiling hot air. “Er, er, Esuldigu, hath du noch eine Thigarette für meech?” piped up the long-since-forgotten lapdog in an attempt at seduction. I fingered one out of the packet, icily. Went upstairs, bought some more fags and walked home in a cloud of smoke along the most deserted streets I could find.



1. The Blind Flaneur - July 6, 2006

Sorry about deleting that post. I felt a fresh start was in order. Suffice to say, strangers poncing smokes still irks me.

2. Bowleserised - July 6, 2006

Thank God I’ve given up. I was the arch poncer in my times, I tells ya.

3. BiB - July 6, 2006

BF, but you’re back! Hurrah! And good point, it’s STRANGERS doing it that irks. So B., if you mysteriously take up smoking again this evening, which I won’t encourage, please feel free to take a fag. But unknowns approaching on the street when they spot the bulge or, like hawks, see you fingering one out of the packet? Là, non!

4. Beaman - July 6, 2006

Thankyou for the Stammtisch info. I’ll be there tonight, with a friend. If you all see a skinny fellow in a light blue shirt, with a black woman, then wave!!! :-)

5. Wyndham - July 7, 2006

As the Blind Flaneur will attest, I am a terrible fag-poncer. The trouble is, I’m one of those shallow people who somehow thinks that buying 10-fags is going to do the trick and will hwelp me live longer. By the time I’ve smoked 10 I then look around the table at who’s got the Marlboros. At some point, a couple of hours later, BF or whoever will kick me out the door and point me in the direction of the newsagent and then everyone helps themselves to my fags.

6. Welshy - July 7, 2006

Where has half your blog gone?!

7. BiB - July 9, 2006

Beaman, glad you made it the other night. Nice to put the rest of your face to the eyes!

Wynders, I promise, for when you one day come to Berlin and we sit shrouded in smoke for the duration, that my fags will be your fags. It’s only utter strangers doing it I mind. Anyone in the social circle is acceptable. But even strangers can occasionally get it right. A gent asked so politely on the street this morning that I handed one over with something approaching joy. Then I got flustered and mixed up “ciao” and “tschüß” and bade him good speed with “chauss”, which will never do.

Welshy, oh bugger, is blogger up shit creek again? It looks OK to me, but comments haven’t been reaching me by mail, for example, so perhaps there’s a gremlin.

8. Welshy - July 9, 2006

It’s ok, it’s back!

9. BiB - July 10, 2006

Thank heavens, though it’s still playing up on the commenting/mailing front, I think. Oh well. Par for the course.

10. daggi - July 10, 2006

You want to buy a packet of “Roth-Händle”. Gorgeous packaging, which makes them look like they were made for the founding congress of the SED, but my, do they taste nasty. Save them for people who “schnorr” your ciggies, and they’ll leave you in peace. Or put your own real fags in R-H packets. No one will ask.

11. BiB - July 10, 2006

Good thinking. I’ll make a note. Although I’m flirting with the idea of giving up again (because there’s only one left in my lovely packet at the moment and I can’t justify a trip out JUST to buy fags. So I’d better stay indoors and sweat and – horrors – WORK instead).

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