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Tuesday 2nd April 2013.

They say the Last Samurai is still alive,they say perhaps he might have ghosted through the streets of Little India Singapore...perhaps i did feel like a Curry. They also say you should never go back..in this case perhaps the words are wise seen printed on the side of cardboard packaging  in bound from Bombay...Buffalo Road greets me rising from the Underground, i start to sing Buffalo Soldier. i have to stop or my body will begin to sway to the beat inside my head..Noel Coward wrote a song which mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the noon day sun it is a hot topic i often swing to when my feet urge to travel....there is quite a history of him imprisoned in Raffles Hotel museum which has sadly closed, forever said the poster on the closed bared door, so perhaps his ghost haunts the long bar, famous for such writers of the period, they today charge ten pound for a pint of tiger beer to linger with such ghosts, which is probably why the Great Unwashed to taste history do not tramp through the door,nor perhaps do they make any money from the Museum, as now money feeds the world's spirit it becomes sadly no surprise. I did think i would write in protest,but i once read from some famous modern day author that editors do not read postbag letters,or perhaps i am Lazy.which was often quoted to me as a young urchin.
Through Buffalo street you hit Dunlop Street, Little India began to fade in my mind the thought of a curry, here, escaped through my panties as the deeper i went the more run down since my last visit, the view became, the memories of a excellent curry stayed a memory...I came across the Prince of Wales backpackers Hostel...twenty-two dollars a night..stay three get one night free plus a free Beer....i paused.glanced inside...Manchester Untied were on the big screen the same match i had seen a few days ago..i wondered...one night free..is it really that bad...i have been in such places cleanness was next to Godlyness, so my father told me, was the first instruction during national service, three generations down the line such words have remained in national service archives.Outside a police car and ambulance caught my eye on the floor clutching his arm in a bandage on a stretcher was a male white man, blood was here,there, not masses but enough to catch the eye,those stood around in uniform did not seem in much hurry perhaps the free night and a pint of beer was the cause or perhaps he was lost and should have been on the Costa's in Spain. Perhaps they were having a whip round for his ticket to such places.
I walked on still in search of the Last Samurai..i came upon a cage, big as a Tennis Court surrounded by cold fridges...full of beer...one called Flying Horse whispered seven point nine percent brewed in India...i recoiled thought what the fuck..and backed out into the sunshine, a white man turning to the colour of a cooked prawn sitting with perhaps his wife, was drinking Special Brew,i instantly i felt sorry for him,forgave his senses in travelling perhaps ten thousand miles to drink Special Brew.
I used to watch old men drink Special Brew when i was eighteen..i asked for one..i never asked again...if there is a drink you can stand a spoon in,that was such a drink in my youth..as they say each to his own. I left the pure Beer men in the noonday sun, Noel Coward was right, the Last Samurai had once more eluded me....and i was not sure on this noon whether i was a mad dog or an Englishman.So goeth.

Comments

( 1 comment — Leave a comment )
bennybunny
Apr. 4th, 2013 12:15 am (UTC)
You're a very entertaining writer. There is an enticing, whimsical drunk quality to things that I like which reminds me a little of the better disjointed parts of Hunter S Thompson.

Keep up the good riffing x
( 1 comment — Leave a comment )

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