Igor the Sot

Am I a freak-magnet?

I was warming up for sword practice when a slovenly gwai louh staggered over and announced his hangover was cured. This moments before CNN was to arrive to film the final portion of the interview.

Swell.

What's the best way to get rid of an unwanted drunk? Especially a lush with a Young Adolf Hitler haircut: where the hair is buzzed to the skin on the sides, around the ears and down the back; parted and combed over on the top. It was the first thing that popped into my mind; all he needed was the shoe-polish mustache.

His name was Igor. He informed me he was drunk (at 11am) and that he was from Russia. He mumbled he was waiting on a Chinese girl, but I couldn't imagine that being truthful.

I hadn't initiated the conversation, but he kept yammering, telling me things I didn't want to know. He was one of those drunks who invades personal space; I kept stepping back and away, wondering if he was going to throw up on me. I wanted to be rid of him but was unable to think of a polite way to do it. I didn't want him to get mad, because there's no reasoning with an alcohol-addled brain. The last thing I needed was for him take a swing, because then I would've had to drop him like a toilet seat.

He then gave wonderful pearls of inebriated wisdom regarding Tai Chi, Hong Kong and life on Lamma Island; he was rude regarding the Chinese. Everything he said was the opposite of what I believe; he embodied some of worst attributes of expatriates.

During his discourse he tried to convince me to move in with him on Lamma, for free, so that I could give him free Tai Chi lessons. To him, Lamma was the be-all, end-all of Hong Kong. He wanted to give me his phone number. He gave me directions to the Central Ferry Pier to get to Lamma, and advised me how to get a drinking partner when I did.

By then I was way past wishing he would go away, so I told him I was married, thinking he'd wise up and realise I wasn't interested in him or his kooky ideas. Instead he asked me if I thought he was DC. DC? Ye gods, a walking anachronism! That term went out the window sometime during the early 80s.

He apologised for having wasted his time and strolled away with his hands clasped behind his back, lurching to the right every few feet before regaining his balance. It was the walk of a veteran sot.

Igor needs to get the bolts on his neck tightened.

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