Birthday Cheer and a Chelsea Tattoo

On Saturday afternoon I stopped into the pub for a pint. As I stood waiting at the bar, a middle-aged black man was engaged in conversation with the young barman.
"Iss my berfday today. It is. Iss my berfday and I'm fifty-one today. I know I don't look it, do I?" I looked at his sunken cheeks and his 'lived-in' face and thought that he looked every minute of his fifty-one years.
    "You are doing very well for fifty-one", I lied. 
    "Yeah, bruv!" he said, "Black don't crack!" He laughed at this observation and cast his gaze around the room for others who might be laughing along to the truism. Then he asked what football team I followed. I told him that I didn't. He said that he had a big Chelsea tattoo on his thigh. And then he launched into an obliquely-related story.
    "You see, the fing is, right? I rang up this lady from the escorts, 'cos I really like big bosoms, right? An' she's out HERE!" He mimed her prodigious bust with outstretched claws in front of his own broad chest. 
    "An' she's on top of me, right? Going up an' down on me pole, an' she looks down at me tattoo an she says - I really shouldn't be grindin' you 'cos I'm Manchester United - an' I said tell me later. An' I juss kept up the doin's until I finished, an' then she juss gets up an' gets dressed and Boom! Out of there quick smart, like 'er hair was on fire or sumfing." At this point a young black guy entered the pub and stood behind us at the bar. Birthday man turned to him.
"Ello, what's your name?" he asked.
"Errol."
"An' what team do you foller?"  Errol replied that he didn't really have a team, but that he used to play a bit of rugby. Whereupon, the birthday man rammed his head against Errol's crotch and lifted him up on his shoulder, which I presumed must have been a rugby tackle. Errol laughed and offered him a high-five. Somewhat taken aback by this display, I absent-mindedly reached for my pint and took a large gulp, only to realise, too late, that I had mistakenly picked up the birthday man's pint of Guinness which sat next to my cider. 
"Thass my drink." he said, a flicker of confusion and anger crossing his face. I apologised profusely and told him I would buy him another drink.
"Ok", he said, "I'll have a pint of Guinness... And a shot of whisky. Iss my berfday, after all."

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