While we were sitting in The Fitzpatrick's Irish pub, Ellison, the mad Irish boxer stormed in shouting, still in tenue de sortie and képi.
“Now this is a man's fookin' sport,” he said, watching one of the playoffs in the Five Nations Rugby Cup.
“Who's got the next round? Get that bollocks barman over here before I start breaking shit.”
The Fitz is the meeting point for the mafia anglaise of different régiments, so we were soon joined by another Irishman and a Kiwi.
“Looks like tonight we're going to have some Legion birds,” said Sijfert, as the pub filled with students.
“Where?” I asked.
“Over at the bar,” he hiccupped into his glass.
“Those skinny French ones?”
“No, the two slappers behind them. I don't give a damn if they're heavy. Grab me another Guinness and they'll suit us. But you're used to shagging those Ally McBeal types. Doesn't work that way in the Legion, mate.”
Getting louder by the minute, Ellison managed to invite a weighty English girl to our table.
“Hey, Ellison, show us how you used to slap your old fella' on the table!” the Kiwi shouted.
Ellison stood up and unfastened his trousers.
“What?” he howled at the giggling English girl.
“You think I'm joking? Are you taking the piss outta me? I said are you taking the fookin' piss outta me! Get away from our table, you worthless whore. Action!”
He noticed Woodman chatting with a male exchange student from the US wearing a Berkeley t-shirt at an adjacent table.
“Get that wanker over here,” he shouted.
The student sat down, looking apprehensive.
“Now we're going to show you how the Legion drinks . . . ”
“What's the Legion?”
“You never heard of the Legion? Steady on, you little runt, are you taking the piss outta me too?”
“It's kind of like the Hell's Angels on camels,” I put in.
Surprisingly, nobody touched the American. He got drunk with us and we taught him all about Legion traditions and customs—how to get on the piss-train and how to screw portly women.
