Deleted Dialogue

“They took the words right out of my mouth and handed them back to me gutted and eviscerated” says my companion – he dabbles as a poet - as we sip monosyllabic premium beer from a recognised brand, in the wholesome décor of a chain pub with a bite-size name. 

Early Friday night drinkers slipped discounted G & T’s down their throats. They don’t have the time to say ‘gin and tonic’, but we, the jobless and hopelessly naive, do.

Drunken word-police had confiscated my companion’s words, and upon inspection had found them lacking for today’s standards, too effusive and explanatory.

“People don’t like things to be over-complicated now, you cunt’” they had said to him in the back alley outside the Pop-Up Word Club, held in a squatted estate agents. Anti-verbose fists pummelled his stomach forcing an unbecoming stream of vomit from his lips.

“Just like his poems” they had laughed, before taking the confiscated missives back to the station for testing.
For my part I had just written an indulgent piece that revelled in its own impenetrability; something to do with fake grass and Canary Wharf that I have to say I had a hard time understanding even myself. My friend warned me that I may be next in line for a kicking from the ineloquent, uniformed thugs.

“Let me see the words then” I said, whilst eyeing a girl clearly below the legal drinking age neck her third W&C in half an hour. I noticed some predatory male eyes gaze at her tits. The men wore T Shirts with one word messages that seemed opaque and strange – FCUK, DKNY, Firetrap. A language that meant little to us at our table, though we wished to understand. It looked fun.

“LOL” screamed the girl as one of the predators approached her and made some witty, concise, joke. I turned away from the scene, wishing I could talk to the ladies like that. 

My companion handed me some of his words as rectified by the word-police. Sad things, they were, all bent out of shape, wheezing, asthmatic and cadaver pale.

“These don’t look like your words at all!” I exclaimed.

“Keep your voice down!” he hissed sharply. “Anyone in here could be a WP informer.”

“OMG”. The girl’s shrill voice wafted over us. Some male grunting answered her. We tried hard to ignore it, or at the very least insert subtexts into the mono-syllables.

“Don’t mention Orwell either , you’re so predictable” he whispered sternly before supping his pint.

It was true, I had been about to mention the obvious, but suitably admonished I declined, my face red.

We spent the rest of the evening with simple sentence structures and platitudes, looking at the girls LOL-ling, slipping away from sobriety.