Название | Londonstani |
---|---|
Автор произведения | Gautam Malkani |
Жанр | Зарубежный юмор |
Серия | |
Издательство | Зарубежный юмор |
Год выпуска | 0 |
isbn | 9780007348596 |
—Fuckin plebs, Ravi keeps shoutin at the Grampa Simpson in front. Then,— Oi, you gandah fucker, every time it, like, farts at us. We couldn’t squeeze past it cos the dickless driver din’t pull into the bus stop proply cos there was another bus in front a him. That bus was a H91 as well. Now that we cleaned these streets a saps, coconuts an Paki-bashing skinheads, we gotta do something bout all these buses. Even with a special slip road for them outside Hounslow West tube station, they always managed to cause chaos there. It was the same near Hounslow East tube, Hounslow Central tube, Hounslow railway station an Hounslow bus station (though I in’t sure it’s fair for us to have beef with buses hangin round at that last one).
The oncoming lane finally clears up, but we still don’t overtake the buses in front cos suddenly one a the H91s opens its doors again to let out a bunch a sixth-formers from the Green School. The Green School for Girls, that is. An even more accurate name would be the Green School for Fit Girls. They were upper sixth-formers, meanin they’d binned their dark green school uniforms a couple a years back an were now struttin around in their best casual garms. Good desi girls, though, so no fuck-me clothes. Jeans an jumpers mostly, but with enough Lycra to make you glad it weren’t cold enough for coats. Hardjit leaned out the window an did whatever it is that he does so well. I couldn’t hear exactly how he was chirpsin them over the CD, but I caught him givin it the line:— Oye oye sohni kurhiyo! The girls did that giggle-disguised-as-a-smile thing an Hardjit was out the door, escorting them to the tube station before you could say, Dude, the station’s only five metres away.
—What the fuck’s he gonna do? Buy their tube tickets for them? I asked the other guys. No answer.
—Or does he reckon he’s gonna get off with one a them in the photo booth?
Still no answer. So I look at whatever it is Amit an Ravi are busy lookin at. An suddenly I’m thinkin Cheers God for makin us bunk off lesson.
—Phwoar! Gimme some air, goes Ravi as another Green School girl steps off the bus.— Wat da fuck is Samira Ahmed doing ridin on a bus?
— I dunno, man, maybe her Beemer broke down, goes Amit.
—But ridin on a bus wid all dem plebs, man. She is so fit, she should b in my Beemer ridin wid me. Actually, scrap dat, she should b ridin me.
—Or maybe even me, goes a voice that sounds a lot like mine. Shit. I covered my mouth as I realised I’d just said that out loud. I apologise to my mind even before it starts givin me a bollocking, but it’s too late to apologise to Amit an Ravi. It weren’t my fault though. I mean, just look over there. Just look at Samira Ahmed. She was the reason guys round Hounslow’d bothered learnin how to spell the word Beautiful stead a just writin the word Fit inside their valentine cards. She was beautiful like them models in make-up ads, the ones where they’re so fit they don’t even look like they’re wearin any makeup. Unlike any a the other desi girls that’d got off the bus before her, Samira Ahmed weren’t even wearin no jewellery either. That’s how fit she was. I in’t lyin. She made you realise how some desi princesses were lookin more an more like clowns dressed up like Christmas trees with all their bling-bling Tiffany tinsel an Mac masks. It was like as if they were tryin to distract your attention from other shit on their faces, like their noses, mouths an eyes. Like they’d got so hooked on who’d got more bling that they’d forgot what jewellery was originally for, same way some desis keep complaining bout non-spicy food cos they forget the original reason for drowning food in chillies was cos the desis in the pinds were so skint they could only afford off meat an so wanted to hide the taste. In business-speak it’s called overinvesting in marketing stead a product development, an sometimes overstating the value a your assets as a result. Soon as the customer’s focus shifts back to the product again your business is fucked cos the whole demand curve, like, shifts inwards. That’s why fizzy soft drinks in’t sellin so well no more now that people know they should be drinkin pani an fruit juice stead a all them artificial flavourings an colouring s an all that other shit desi princesses slap on their faces. But not Samira Ahmed. No marketing, no make-up, no sodium benzoate, no jewellery, no aspartame an none a that potassium sorbate shit. Multiply her usual fitness by ten the way she was lookin today, dressed in that tight black polo neck that stretched round her chest an that khaki skirt - shiny, soft, slinky. Satin, probly. What is it bout shiny skirts that let you see a lady’s curves even better than you’d be able to if she was wearin no skirt, no nothin? All a that Heaven held together by this thin brown leather belt fastened diagonally across Samira’s butt an matchin her boots.
—Yeh, right, goes Ravi.— Why’d she go for a deep n meaningful gimp like you when she cud wrap dem legs round a stud like me?
But Amit is less willin to just roll with my comment bout wantin Samira to ride me.— Easy now, Jas, he goes.— Ravi here jus b chattin bout how fit she is. Da way you say it, it soundin like you onto her. Samira outta bounds for all a us bredrens an you know it. She Muslim, innit. We best all stick to our own kinds, boy, don’t b playin wid fire. An you best not b chattin like dat in front a Hardjit.
Amit had a point a course. If any a us ever got with Samira, her mum an dad’d probly kill her and then try an kill us. That’s if our own mums an dads din’t kill us first. An then that’s if Hardjit din’t kill us before they did. Mr Ashwood had taught us bout the bloody partition a India an Pakistan during History lessons. What we din’t learn, though, was how some people who weren’t even born when it happened or awake during History lessons remembered the bloodshed better than the people who were.
—Relax, Amit, I jus be jokin, innit. I jus be chattin shit, checkin her out same way Ravi is, I go, tryin to sound casual but not managing to sound casual enough. Not nearly casual enough.— But it in’t as if she’s like a strict Muslim, is it?
—Wat da fuck is wrong wid’chyu? Wat da fuck’d I jus say, Jas? None a us lot should ever b goin there, man. Don’t matter whether she strict n dat. Jus don’t b fuckin goin there, a’ight.
I figure things can’t get any more tense, so I defy him an go there a little more:— Yeh, but I’m just sayin, how strict can she be? I mean, she’s a she. Most Muslim fundamentalists are blokes.
—Look, she got three brothers an dey well strict. One a dem even belongs to Hizb ut-Tahrir or Al-Muhajiroun or one a dem groups. Dey stricter bout keepin their sister halal than my mum is bout keepin her shit vegetarian so you jus best shut da fuck up before Hardjit gets back.
—I jus sayin she can’t