I NEVER DID CATCH A GLIMPSE OF STING in his hometown but I did discover that men, no matter where they are, share one thing in common: women.

During a Caribbean cruise earlier in the year, I had met a really cool family from Newcastle. They had generously offered for me to visit them if I was ever in the UK so I decided to look them up.

My plan was to stay with them for a week or so to get my bearings, do a couple of day trips, and then plan the next major city to visit. Little did I know this stay would include a night out on the town with the boys replete with a crash course in advanced English.

To protect the innocent I have given these "boys" special names that no one could possibly decipher. (Well, maybe their wives could.) They are: Oilman, Manchester Murray, Wheelbarrow and Mr. Good Looks.

The night went something like this...

Mr. Good Looks picked us up around 7:00 P.M. and chauffeured us into the city center where the infamous pub circuit lay. As we drove, he and the others purported that we would eye much "hot tottie" during the course of the evening.

Oilman had told me earlier in the week that the women in Newcastle were a bit more bold and open then other parts of the country and, even in the midst of the coldest winter nights, could be seen wandering the circuit wearing little more than a miniskirt and a sleeveless top. For these
reasons, these "birds" (an older colloquialism) had been given the moniker "hot tottie." Mr. Good Looks confirmed the observation.

After many such stories and even an anecdote about a famous physicist saying, right before he kicked the bucket, "As I reflect back on life, the thing I wish I would have spent more time doing was having sex," the emerging theme was certainly not about interior decorating, as I suspected
it would be (because that’s what men really talk about when out on the town), but about the oldest and most inspiring of all temptations: beer.

It came as no surprise to discover then, as the old English proverb goes, "When a man has a pound in his pocket, he’ll spend it at the pub." Many a pound in my own pocket did I have, but I would never have to dip into my own trousers and live up to the saying because Mr. Good Looks was THE MAN about town.

That’s right. It seems that he was of substantial notoriety because, no matter where we went, we always went to the front of the queue (the English term for the waiting line), entered through the back door of an establishment, and/or got free drinks everywhere we ventured. I had no
complaints.

Standing at the bar with Mr. Good Looks, I asked him what he felt were the secrets to running a successful establishment such as this. An industry veteran, he appeared to know all the tricks to motivate others to imbibe. And from the looks of the place we were in, he knew exactly what he was talking about.

"You see, Augi, the most basic premise is simple: the more bartenders behind the bar, the faster the drinks are served, the more cash hits the till." This made perfect sense to me and was actually enlightening because I’d never seen 12 bartenders behind one bar in the states.

He continued to talk about the various ways to ensure maximum consumption by slowly elevating the volume of the music, installing pre-mixed drink dispensers, and so on. What struck me most was his statement on the deep psychological effects of restroom lighting.

"In the lou (aka restroom), we have to make sure the lighting is just right so you look better in the mirror than you actually do."

I never realized this was a trick until I went into my own bathroom and realized my real estate agent had installed special lighting to make me believe I was sexy. That bastard!

But I’m getting sidetracked...

As the night evolved, the group collectively devolved. Quite  "pissed" as the English say (aka inebriated), we were acting like any group of sophisticated, accomplished men does: stupid. At one point during a delay in traffic, Wheelbarrow spotted a couple of totties he knew and said, "I’ll
meet up with you at the next pub" as he dashed from the car. Manchester Murray, ever quick on the draw, found an appropriate English euphemism to capture the moment: "He’s so horny his balls are in a wheelbarrow." Apparently they really were as we found him, empty handed, at the next pub.

Continuing the English lesson, Oilman spouted out "rumpy pumpy!" which, to me, sounded like some silly marketing twist on a Denny’s hamburger. Not so.   And though I’m not for certain if this next phrase can be attributed to anyone but the infamous Crooning Man who wasn’t with us that night, "Yodeling up the valley" just has to be mentioned. I’ll let your imagination run with that one.

Getting late, we retired to Sea, a posh nightclub reverberating with popular music, hyperactive lights, and a literal sea of tottie.

My memory gets a bit squishy at this point, but I do recall gliding across the dance floor smooth as polyester and being approached by a semi-hot tottie who said one of the most original lines I’ve ever heard. "You see my girlfriend over there? Yes, that one. She likes you. I think you should go talk to her." All I could see was the girl’s back, but I was so impressed by
the creativity of this woman’s line I decided to give it a shot. I mean, the boys did say the girls were more open here.

The dance floor a sea of madness, I walked up behind her and said "HI!" over the pounding of the techno music. She didn’t respond. Figuring it was the music I spoke even louder.

"HI! MY NAME IS AUGI!"

Still no reply. Finally, I got right up to her ear and screamed, "HELLO! YOUR GIRLFRIEND SAID I SHOULD TALK TO YOU. IS THAT RIGHT?" At this she turned around and looked surprised, then confused, and rounded it off with an expression of "Are you some kind of super freak?"

Upon seeing her face the only thought I had running through my mind was, "Man, I remember what Mr. Good Looks said about the lighting, but it sure isn’t helping this bird."

Realizing we’d been duped by her friends into this mutually embarrassing moment, she flaunted her big hair and faced the opposite direction. I laughed as I walked away, my pride still intact.

Tired and ready to call it a night I rejoined the boys and took the last drink of my Newcastle Brown ale. Mr. Good Looks asked me what I thought about the evening and I told him I’d had a great time, though no luck with the birds.

At this he winked at Oilman and Manchester Murray whom had both started to laugh. "Well, then, my young lad. Just wait until tomorrow."

I gave an inquisitive eye back at him. "Why’s that?"

"Before tomorrow’s football match we’re going to see some topless tottie."

"Hmm," I pondered momentarily. "I wonder what kind of lighting they’ll have."