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Sunday, 5 June 2011


There is a lot of talk on the use of the word 'chav' these days and to be honest if you asked me what do I envisage on hearing this word I would have to say Prince Harry or even his mother Diana. It is however, a word used back in old Blighty to describe folk that make other people feel thank God they are not like  them, because unlike them, they have style, grace, decorum and less than two children I suppose. Which makes me wonder what kind of person would twitter that they are standing in a queue with chavs and having to listen to them witter on about Eastenders while they eat big buns. Are the cutbacks so severe that Lord Pollard or whatever her name is, has the bad luck of having to queue up like the rest of us.

Being one of those aunts who likes to take the offspring of others to the races and casinos while their parents are not looking I thought I'd better watch the Derby so as not to get too out of touch with the racing fraternity. My money was on Seville but I fancied a flutter on the Aga Khan's Vadamar and of course Carlton House but it was not to be and despite almost having a heart attack on a now damaged sofa, it was Por Moi, trained by a Frenchman  and ridden by a French boy who looked about thirteen. It was amazing and well done him. He stood up while still on the horse as he approached the finish line, with a confidence not seen since Usain Bolt's world record win. I haven't followed up the reaction in the British press, but I hope there isn't the sort of reaction you get when the English lose at football. All those 'what ifs' and feelings of being somehow cheated.

Last week I found myself having such a slanging match with the Spanish, the English and the Dutch that I thought I'd better have an evening more international so went out for dinner with H, and two Spanish  friends as one of them had just passed her German exam. We dined at the Juliana which is always a favourite. Later we decided to avoid the Rugaca and any other bars which might lead me to have a scrap with a Spaniard on the floor. Thankfully this didn't happen and no insults were hurled although I did find myself getting drawn into one of those 'discussions' with a Spanish man who insisted the gun on display was the very one used in the Dirty Harry films. As I left this bar I could just make out Sharon Stone's boots and boa she wore in Casino. Yes, another 'retro' bar has been added to the growing list of establishments who are hooked on this kind of debris. All over town you too can imagine you are in Ireland surounded by the sort of shit Irish people like to be besieged with just to remind themselves of who they are. As well as Ireland you can picture yourself pissed in another country and century even. In this latest bar Henderson was told that he could get a good gin and tonic. There was an array of gins on display but without looking he ordered a Gordon's. It was a bit like Monty Python's cheese shop when the barman said he was sorry but they didn't stock that one.

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