Let’s get this straight – every female in the club had been officially rated since birth as ‘way out of my league’. Pretty, slim, lithe and glowing – they were the kind of textbook beauties dangled daily in the media as an example of what all women should strive to look like.
Maybe it was just me who didn’t find them sexy. Over-tanned, over-toned, overbearing – like their rictus smiles, their entire personas seemed dehumanised and robotic, designed for a photo-shoot rather than real life.
But maybe the finer things in life are wasted on me. I’d tried criminally expensive whiskey and chocolate, but found them bland and characterless. I’ve ridden in a Bentley and driven a Jaguar – both felt too smooth and insulated. No fun. As for food, I’d take a carvery over caviar any day.
Beer, bangers and boilers all the way for you then, Donal, I told myself.
My jangling nerves had a thirst on, polishing off bottle one in no time at all. Bottle two came with bottle-blonde Lenka, a Slovenian who proved every bit as bitter sweet as the Margarita she insisted I buy her.
‘So nice to meet you, Dunnell,’ she smarmed, making my name rhyme with Sally Gunnell.
‘You too, Lunka,’ I replied, wondering whether it was the sulphites, sugar or pesticides in champagne that always drove me slightly loopy.
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