[God, what a golden accent. "Bruv." The kid's a fucking treasure trove of idioms and ticks and Richie would be happy just to hear him rattle off about something stupid. Here, read the cocktail list. Recite the phone book, please. Just let him soak up that South London scuffle and easy breeze.
He laughs at the ancient warrior dig. Of the Westerosi he only knows that little redheaded sweetheart, but boy oh boy Diana. Clair too, among others. It was something else to sit and have a conversation with shades of the past, fight against the shift of morals, slang, and expectations. What a wild ride.]
The Marines, fuck! [Richie pulls back with his fingers pulled up to frame the kid as if testing for a cinematic sweep. He squints through the window he's made and intones his findings as Winston Churchill.] It seems so, yes, that this! This is a man who is master of his own fate.
[But soft, now: that is a name that no loving mother should ever bestow on a lad. Even if he is British. They're all a bit quirky, are they not? This is taking it a step too far if you ask him. His mouth drops open to lay in on it.
Then claps shut. It occurs to him at once that poor Eggsy has probably had about eight hundred people ask about his sister, Toastada. He's loathe to be the eight hundred and first. Can't stand to be that unoriginal, even if his whole schtick is imitation.]
Actor? Good God, no. With a face like mine, the only place for me and my devotion to rock-n-roll was in radio. I'm used to hamming it up behind a mike, not a hot poker on a lynching deck. But of course, there's shit-all for similar departments around here. The music's all church organs and the radio is a dream unrealized. I'm stuck bartending for now.
[If he even has a job, still. Being deceased and all. Richie shakes his head and takes an enormous glug of beer. Let's not dwell, shall we?]
no subject
He laughs at the ancient warrior dig. Of the Westerosi he only knows that little redheaded sweetheart, but boy oh boy Diana. Clair too, among others. It was something else to sit and have a conversation with shades of the past, fight against the shift of morals, slang, and expectations. What a wild ride.]
The Marines, fuck! [Richie pulls back with his fingers pulled up to frame the kid as if testing for a cinematic sweep. He squints through the window he's made and intones his findings as Winston Churchill.] It seems so, yes, that this! This is a man who is master of his own fate.
[But soft, now: that is a name that no loving mother should ever bestow on a lad. Even if he is British. They're all a bit quirky, are they not? This is taking it a step too far if you ask him. His mouth drops open to lay in on it.
Then claps shut. It occurs to him at once that poor Eggsy has probably had about eight hundred people ask about his sister, Toastada. He's loathe to be the eight hundred and first. Can't stand to be that unoriginal, even if his whole schtick is imitation.]
Actor? Good God, no. With a face like mine, the only place for me and my devotion to rock-n-roll was in radio. I'm used to hamming it up behind a mike, not a hot poker on a lynching deck. But of course, there's shit-all for similar departments around here. The music's all church organs and the radio is a dream unrealized. I'm stuck bartending for now.
[If he even has a job, still. Being deceased and all. Richie shakes his head and takes an enormous glug of beer. Let's not dwell, shall we?]