Lonely as the loneliest cloud, Steve was in the process of downing his first pint of the evening. Thick as a ceramic brick and obtuse as two of the choicest short planks, Steve was more bovine than human. As sparks went he was far from being the brightest, and as tools went he was far from being the sharpest.
As he stared over the top of his pint there walked into the pub what in Steve’s parlance was referred to as a minger – an absolute minging minger. If you had to scrape the bottom of the ugly barrel you’d be hard pressed to find a woman less repulsive. Hideous as a train wreck and wider than the back end of two army trucks, she was more simian than human. As visages went hers was more vinegar than wine and as miens went hers was less pearl than swine.
Steve took one look at her and spluttered into his pint. He shook his head in disbelief. Was it even possible for a woman to look that ugly, he wondered. To fortify the soul and buttress the mind Steve ordered another pint and gulped it down.
He stared across at the Gorgon and shuddered. Graceless and gauche, grisly and grotesque, she seemed to trip over herself and would be more at ease on four legs than two. Black-wire serpents grew cirque-couchant on her head. Krakatoan pimples erupted gleefully on her face. Buckteeth rivalled flaring nostrils to take centre stage. Hairy moles as big as caterpillars crawled along her upper lip. The sideburns that crept down her jowl gave Elvis a run for his money. Her turkey wattle and elephant gait were enough to make Steve want to order another pint of the most potent larger.
A damned discord seemed to accompany her wherever she went – a cacophony of unsightliness wobbled with her every move. No silver planet was she of eve or morn, but a boiling blob of ridicule and scorn.
Poor thing, Keats would have sighed, for she was a maid, uglier far than ever twisted braid; or sighed, or grunted, or on a spring-flowered lea, spread a skank kirtle to the minstrelsy.
Ah, there wouldn’t be barge poles long enough that would induce him to touch her with, Steve mused, as he gulped down his next pint.
By his ninth libation of larger something strange seemed to happen. Was it an illusion, a sleight of hand? Was it hocus-pocus? – Some kind of subterfuge? Were his eyes deceiving him? – He couldn’t say for sure. All he knew was that the creature before him was starting to shimmer and sham; flicker and flam.
Her face grew blurred and fuzzy, vague and soupy. But when the hallucinatory mists cleared she seemed to be a new woman! Steve guzzled his beer in amazement. Was she the same person! She couldn’t be, could she! He wondered.
The black wires were now golden curls; the blanched woebegone cheeks blushed roses damasked. The caterpillar moles on her lip metamorphosed into dainty butterflies and flapped away. The volcanic pimples cleared to leave an unblemished milder-mooned mead. The jangling discord changed into a silvery Circean tune.
She was now as svelte as a gazelle and as slinky as a kinky Malinkee princess. He drank her beauty to the lees and left not a drop in the lustful cup.
He began to lurch, wobble and weave towards her, bumbling into tables and bumping into chairs. “Ah, goddess,” slurred Steve, “Will you come home with me?”
She grew coy and demure and offered her arm.
He huffed and he puffed and grew full of false charm.
They were last seen walking out the front door,
Steve, with his drool dripping all over the floor.
As he left, Steve winked over his shoulder:
“Beauty does lie in the eyes of the beer-holder.”
