Have You Ever Had an Arse Latte?
Sometimes it’s a pain in the arse being an ex-pat
This story is from my short story collection, ‘Ballbag’. It's old but I’m reprinting it here to celebrate Everton’s 2-1 win over Crystal Palace at the weekend and also for my new friend, who is a Crystal Palace fan. You can get the book here if ya wanna. Thanks for reading.
Many moons ago, I remember hearing Greg Norman speak in his American — Australian hybrid accent and thinking,
Greg, you sound like a fucking cock.
People don’t get to hear their accents when living inside their own heads.
It’s easy to forget how twenty years in Australia can make one’s Northern English accent sound like that of a drunken priest during a homily.
I decided to try out a new cafe for my morning coffee.
It was a stinking hot day, and regardless of the supposed view that hot drinks cool ya down, it’s not my thing. I ordered an ice latte —although only later did I find out it’s an iced latte.
But Australians say ICE like OISE
And people from the North of England say ICE like AYSE
And in my situation, the combination of the two sounds like ARSE.
So I asked for my drink, and the girl behind the counter nodded suspiciously.
A man appeared in her place a few moments later.
‘You looking for an arse latte?’ he whispered.
I looked left and right but wasn’t sure why.
‘That’s right’
‘Cool. It’s $55'
I thought it was a bit expensive for a latte.
Coffee had been going up in price, but this seemed excessive. Still, the next place was a fair walk, and I needed caffeine now.
I waited in the usual spot till they called my name. The man at the counter told me to go around the back.
I thought it was unorthodox, but I still hadn’t had caffeine, so the brain fog made me go along with it. He opened the door to a room and ushered me in.
The door locked behind me.
I was getting a little concerned. There were purple curtains in this room, and the music sounded a little too bassy and slow for my liking.
I started to wonder why anyone would charge $55 for a latte. Damn brain fog.
A door opened, and a man entered.
He wore a green t-shirt with a parrot picture on it and no pants.
‘Hi, I’m Cecil’, he muttered like a disinterested service station attendant.
He took out some vaseline, placed one leg up on the coffee table and began to lube up his arsehole in a circular motion.
‘Excuse me’ I said. ‘Is my coffee coming soon?’
I watched as his cock and balls swung around as if waltzing with the slowly disappearing fingers of his left hand.
‘Sorry?’ Cecil said. He put the vaseline back down, bent over in front of me, and pulled his lily-white cheeks apart.
His shiny arsehole winked at me as if to say,
‘What the fuck are you waiting for Frank? Stick ya knob in me’
At least that’s what it sounded like in my head. And I wondered how it knew my name.
Cecil’s parrot t-shirt rode up a little and revealed a small tattoo on his side that said ‘CPFC’.
‘I see you are a Crystal Palace fan’, I said, trying to break the awkwardness.
‘Sorry?’ repeated Cecil. He twisted his head to see me pointing at the tattoo.
‘No, they are the initials of my ex,’ he said.
‘His name was Cristof Palma Fabrico Caballero’.
I nodded.
‘So, my coffee?’
Cecil stood up and turned around to face me.
‘I know what’s happened here. You asked for an iced latte, right?’
‘That's right.’
He laughed, grabbed some tissues from his bag and began wiping the lube off his arsehole.
‘I’m sorry, she got your order wrong. It’s the new girl. This is the second time today. She must have thought you asked for an arse latte.’
‘Oh right. Is that a thing is it?’
‘Obviously’, I answered myself.
‘Look, I’m sorry to waste your time Cecil’, I said. ‘I mean, you have a great arsehole. It’s really shiny and stuff. I’m just married, and I need a coffee, so….’
‘I’ll get your money back’, Cecil said.
‘Keep it’, I said. ‘Put it towards getting that tattoo removed’.
‘Oh yeah, about that..’ he said, putting on a pair of underpants.
‘I was kidding. I am a Crystal Palace fan’.
‘Oh right,’ I said. ‘That’s funny’
‘You reckon you might be able to hang on to Zaha next season?”
Cecil didn’t answer. He left the room, and I was left admiring the purple curtains once more.
The door behind me opened, the man gave me my coffee and ushered me out of the door.
‘Sorry for the mix up’, he said. ‘I have reimbursed your card. The coffee is on the house’.
‘Thanks very much and it’s no problem’
As I left I thought about what a brilliant way of making extra money it was during these tough times. I realised more hospitality businesses could afford to be as innovative as these guys.
I called my wife on the way home.
‘How is your day going?’ she asked.
‘Something strange happened’, I said.
‘What is it, Darling?’
‘You’re not going to believe this, but I just met a Crystal Palace fan’.
I would have thought coffee enema but what do I know....better to go for the jugular...
Starbucks take note.