David, the dour, Scottish clansman, is back from his adopted country Australia where he heaps about a third of his empire, and Costa is happy to be going out with Dave. They suit each other and have dour, good times on the dark side of Pattaya. Roy and Costa, on the other hand, don’t suit each other that well, and yesterday Costa told me Roy came near to getting an index finger snapped off.
At two in the afternoon, the pair hit Murphy’s and over cups of tea played pool till four. Roy couldn’t resist the large bottles of froth so hit the beers. Costa told him to eat but was ignored. Nine in the evening and a very drunk Roy provoked Costa…something to do with going for a younger woman not a cheaper, older one. When Roy gets the bit between his teeth and sees the finishing-line he goes for it. At about ten-thirty, with more beer than wisdom in his head, Roy started to point his index finger at Costa, telling him yet again that he should spend the bucks on a younger, more attractive lass. When Roy points the index finger after many beers, he hangs it almost on the other guy’s nose. Costa informs me he was about to snap the seventy-year-old’s finger off but resisted, moving away. Roy continued to jeer advice till the offender (Costa) was safely tucked up in bed but by that time no one was listening to Roy who wended his wobbly way home.
David, with or without a kilt, must now be Costa’s number-one preference especially because Roy is a keen lecturer after several beers and is no doubt looking forward to educating the ireful Costa once again.
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