Metropolitan (Westbourne Park)

Tommy de Vito (Goodfellas)

I’m taking a little time out from the neighbourhood to take care of some f**king business. 

A few of my wise guys from Brooklyn had their asses kicked in this part of London a while back. And that can’t happen. That’s London, England, by the way. Apparently there’s a lot of basketball players in this neck of the woods – if you get my f**king drift. Bunch of these guys in hoods roughed up my crew, that’s what I heard. Anyhows I figured it was about time to come back and put things straight. So I’m ten years late, but who’s counting, right?

Anyways I get out the cab and walk past the stinking blocks of flats over there. Everyone is drinking in the gutter outside this retard joint on the corner of Great Western and Tavistock. Back in my day, you want to drink in a bar – you drink in a bar. You don’t stand outside in the cold shivering like a pack of hobos.

The Metro-pol-i-tan. Only it ain’t so scary anymore. What’s with all the stupid lampshades? And where have all the bad guys gone? I'm ready to wrap a ratchet round someone’s f**king head but there’s nothing doing over here. Mind you... violence ain’t the only thing on my mind. It’s still so f**king cold in this country that all the rats have to wear fur coats. Not like my mamas place, may she rest in peace.

But the cold don’t make no difference in The Metro-pol-i-tan since the bar is 600 f**king people deep. They say this place gets heated up by body warmth alone. It took me two hours to move two f**king metres through these morons. Everyone is kissing the air and "excuse me this" and "excuse me that". Well, "excuse me all over the place". They told me the crowd back in the day was full of deadbeats, now it’s just full of assholes.

“Move out of the way, f**knuts” I says, “Or I’ll stick a knife in your ass.”

The bartender is a scrawny bastard with a big nose like a beak on the side of his f**king face. Good for him.

“Hey, Beaky... yeah you… Tough Guy…can I have drink over here? Yeah, when you’re ready. Vodka Tonic. There it is.”

But nothing happens. This guy doesn’t even acknowledge me.

Couple of minutes later still nothing happens. No drink. I’m thinking maybe that’s how they do things over here, make a guy work hard for the business, but meanwhile ten minutes later I’m still stood at the bar like I’m The Invisible Man all of a sudden.

So I figure I’ll lean on this prick a little bit, you know? Cos what’s right is right. And this ain’t right.

“Hey enough already... some time soon with those drinks ok, Fruitcake?”

*still getting blanked*

“What’s that you say? You’re not trying to be out of order? Well, I’m glad you’re not trying to be out of order, that’s a relief. Like I’m just here for your entertainment you f**king bumblebee.”

*barman starts serving his mates and chatting with a lady friend, so Tommy takes out a pen and stabs the barman through the neck, blood spurting everywhere*

Can you believe this guy? What a piece of work. Like I was gonna wait around all day for him to get his sh*t together. I shoulda taken him outside and wrung his f**king neck or whacked the f**ker out or some sh*t. PING POW. Dug him a hole out back.

But then I see Johnny Boy *Mean Streets*. He’s an old friend of the family… in the same line of work as myself…. me and his old man did some wet work together that time back in 78. Upstate. But Johnny… he never has any money this guy. No money but I bet he still wants a f**king drink. On the other hand maybe he can get some service from the crooked bill ass vulture over there.

“Hey!!! Tommy!” says Johnny, coming over to me all friendly with open arms like we’re long lost brothers or some sh*t.

“Johnny”, I says, “You wanna buy me a drink over here? Stick it on your f**king tab”.

I’ll stick it on his tab or in his ass (one way or another) he don’t buy me a drink this guy.

“No offence intended, Johnny. Just get me a drink would ya? I’m thirsty over here.”

A half hour later and I realise that Johnny Boy has the bar presence of a small child. The ski-slope at the bar is holding his neck and serving everyone else apart from Johnny. And Johnny has now started talking to a couple of broads from the Village. They leave when they realise Johnny hasn’t got any money and couldn’t get served even if he did.

So then there’s just the two of us again. Standing around like a couple of spare pricks.

*Some more time passes... Sun sets, sun rises…*

We’re still here, Johnny and me. Laurel and Hardy. And we still haven’t got served yet. Johnny says I’m a DD. Disappointed Dunski. That was three days ago. And tomorrow’s Saturday. They say it gets busy here on Saturdays. Looks like I’m going to have to bring some more boys over from the East side to handle this little problem. Get something going on down here. We might even have to whack some f**ker out sometime soon. Whack him out. Yes sir. But they say there's a bar down the road that has even worse service than this place. Can you believe that? Worse. The Prince Bonaparte something or other. Wow. It gets any worse I'll be digging holes all f**king night.

Tommy De Vito's rating of The Metropolitan 5/10
“Don’t get me started!”

Savage Cheyne

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