Culture my arse....

I was at a art gallery last night, eyeing up some rather fetching-and expensive pictures, mingling, and -I am not ashamed to say it- giving folk my card. Panhandling for work, the social butterfly. French Gay was there and so was one of my girlfriends.
There was a good crowd in attendence, wall to wall nobodies like myself, so it was a while before I noticed something was up with French Gay. He was standing rigid, his back to the wall wearing a look of muderous contempt and swiging from a bottle of South African wine. I excused myself from the group tax dodgers I was talking to and drifted over to him.
'What's wrong with you?'
'Alllorrrsszz, so boring.' He said in what seemed like a really shouty voice.
'Let me guess, ' I whispered, 'property prices, inflation worries and...'
'Ze price of fuel and ze fucking sex-ed scandal' He raised an imperious eyebrow and gave the room a flilty sweep, 'Borrring Pigzzz, 'ow can they keep talking always about zez things, why is no one looking at ze pitcures, ze should stay in ze home or ze pub, fucking idiot monkeys. Sooo borring, pft, money! I don't want to talk always about such shit. I am sick of eeet, so sick of eeet, all day in the office, mon dieu, oh zis one, she buy-ed her 'ouse 'ere, and zat one, he pay ziz in the mortgage...pffftt,' He waved the bottle wildly slopping wine about the place, 'It make-ed me seeek. Sheet, talk about somthings else-ed please.'
I took a sip of my drink. 'Like what?'
He rolled his shoulder like only a french man can do.
'Like art, like culture, like books, like life, not sheet, always sheet, fucking 'ouses, ten years I am talking about only 'ouses, every party, every opening, ever where, I don't want to talk about 'ouses any more.'
We stood there for a while in silence, me wondering whether I should leave some cards by the door, him glowering at the room and no doubt missing the culture of the one shop fucking village he came from in France.
After a while our other friend joined us.
'All right darlings?'
'According to Pepe le Pew here,' I said, 'we're bereft of culture.'
She looked at him and grinned. 'Guess what Frenchy, Andy's here.'
'Andy?' ( hairdresser, worked in LA for about eight months, and 'apparently' worked on every major star in that short time. Or he could be a big fat greasy liar. You pick).
'Really?' French Gay perked up, 'Where?'
'I'm going to get another drink.' I said, I don't like Andy, he's sweaty and he creeps me out.
Off they toddled, French Gay complaining loudly, my friend trying to shush him. I got another drink chatted to to ould lads at the bar, had another drink to gird my loins so to speak and went in search of my companions.
I found them, deep in a heated/spirited/animated conversation with the slimy Andy. At last, I thought, French Gay is 'imsself- his arm waving, eye rolling, shrugging snorting self.
I was surprised, so surprised I went back to the bar for another drink before I rejoined them. Who knew Slimy Andy could provide the much sought for culture? Perhaps I had misjudged the walking vat of vasoline. I drew closer.
Ah.
'Angelina Jolie...blah blah balh.... Brad Pitt...waffle, you know when I worked in LA... teehee.... the baby... Shiloh what a name? Do you like it, better than Suri surely...pffttt, ez ridiculous! No no, eeee left-ed her- Jennifer Anniston, so thin, but those legs, really? I think he looks like the undead, or is it the dead...You know when I worked in LA...''
Culture, in all its glory.