Scobie Snacks

Where do you stand on public displays of affection?

I've just been out to lunch there and have had to deal with the grotesque reality of two scobies snogging, at length, right before my very appalled eyes. They were in vision for some time and from quite a distance so I had ample time to take it all in, and anyway, much like looking at a car crash, couldn’t really look anywhere else.

Suffice to say it wasn't like they do it in the movies.

He was wearing light beige-coloured tracksuit bottoms, endearingly positioned quite a distance down his arse. You know, like the rappers on MTV although it was less fashion statement and more being totally banjoed at 1 o’clock on a weekday. Then again, he may well have thought it was a sexy look with those once-upon-a-time-we-were-white underpants bashfully poking above his waistband. Nice.

Ms. Scobe was similarly a la mode. In other words, she was crammed into supertight drain-pipe jeans that may well never return from her ass-crack without surgical intervention, or at the very least, fire-brigade cutting equipment. A tracksuit top of the standard Champion Sports stock was worn on top, with slicked hair that was tied in a bun and yes folks, said bun could well have included a burger as well given the grease present. The ensemble was off-set by humungous Pat Butcher earrings that possibly receive coded messages from space.

As in: "He-ur Dermo! Me fuggin earrings are talkin' shoigh again."

"Yeah roigh. Well. Lookit. Just fuggoffwillyeh I'm stashin' the drugs up the dog's arse."

"Yacunch-aaaaaa."

Anyhoo, the scene is set, now to the kiss itself.

They had opted for the static, lips-locked-on approach, no head movement. Statuesque almost, if not quite the Pieta. As I approached and studied this glued-at-the-mouth embrace, I surmised that they might have been just passing drugs orally but it went on for waaaaay too long for that. Then I began to doubt myself and wondered was it just very lifelike inner-city sculpture. Up closer though it was clear that the pair of them were actually breathing and were plain old bollocksed. They could well have been unconscious and had just fallen asleep like that or something.

On yet closer inspection, there was a binbag between them and I wondered was this part of the streetscape - i.e. someone's household waste providing a charming prop, or was it actually their belongings. In any case I was soon distracted as she moved in for a closer clinch, accidentally dragging her partner's already south-bound tracksuit closer to a ground-zero situation. My eyes widened in terror as I thought of confronting his unkempt bits, so I quickened my pace and tried to look at something else. Thankfully I got past before I had to deal with the appearance of a scruffy scobie sausage, and I was greatful for it.

I was just getting back to thinking about food when they caught up with me at the next pedestrian crossing. I stole a glance over at Don Juan. 26-odd. Unshaven, with drooping, glazed eyes, slurred junkie speech. A few teeth, mostly black, with a brown crust/slime of something or other around his mouth. I was starting to feel sorry for the yoke that had been snogging him when it dawned on me that it was probably her that had deposited it there in the first place.

Then, without warning they picked up their bin bag and, ignoring the lights, stepped carelessly out into the heavy traffic in that way that all scobies do, such is their hurry to get to that meeting, send that email or make that deadline. Just after stepping off the pavement, Ms. Scobe farted audibly and giggled.

The female of the species is more ugly than the male.