Lost in Translation 

In The Cockroach and Ant tavern, two English lads, Andy and Fred, sank one crisp pint after  another, nibbled on some Bombay mix, and moved into drunken mindscapes, filled with  wistful dreams and sadness. 

Pint #5 

“Shee won’t tark to me , Frud, sha gone leev me thus turm, I no eet.” 

(She won’t talk to me, Fred, she’s going to leave me this time, I know it.) “Durn woz, Ander, sheel swoon suuu sence.” 

(Don’t worry, Andy, she’ll soon see sense) 

“New, Frud, see jus dunno git meee.” 

(No, Fred, she just doesn’t get me.) 

The men took a toilet break. They loomed over the latrine like Union Jack flags swaying in  the wind. After a smoke beneath purple clouds threaded with rain, the boys went back inside  and continued drinking. 

Pint #9 

“Eff sheeed jaast lastan fur oonse, shud rulus a ruulle lav a.” 

(If she’d just listen for once, she’d realise I really love her.) 

“Wumoon ur look buldas—yer huff ter poos dem hup do hell un book. Swoon enuf thee evut  leeds tu meenin.” 

(Women are like boulders—you have to push them up the hill and back. Soon enough the  effort leads to meaning.) 

“Durts prifunde, mute. Camooo, rut?” 

(That’s profound, mate. Camus, right?) 

Crystal, the barmaid, rang the bell for last orders and everyone dashed to the bar for one more  round. Fred steadied himself, juggled some change, then bought four more pints—just to be  safe. 

Pint #13 

“Gee yay chups rund fat ma ying prounce ov Moan, sling hub Engerlund.” (Get your chops round that, my young prince of Maine, king of England.) 

An hour later, Crystal approached the two lads, balancing a stack of pint glasses against her  chest with a damp cloth slung over her shoulder. 

“Gentlemen, why is it always you two? What language do you speak? I said time’s up.” “Mah, blah mur, blahdy blurm blum bargh? Eeeh, ooo ahhh eeeh.” 

(Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Oh, if you could only know how I feel, Crystal, I’d  whisk you off your feet and we’d travel the world.) 

“That’s beautiful, Andy, but you know I’m spoken for, and I know you are too.” “Hoot? Hoawee hooare?” 

(What? You understand me?) 

“Of course, Andy, I’ve been working here for years. Now go on home, ok? I’ll see you  tomorrow.” 

So, the two men stumbled through the city streets, tripping over tourists and nighttime traffic,  satisfied with their thorough discourse.

Now all they needed was a delicious plate of fish and chips, a truly British dish, drowning in  salt, vinegar, and smeared with a fat dollop of mayonnaise. They bought it from the finest  chippie joint in town, served by a man named Steve—a grumpy, monosyllabic guy who  seemed unable to speak a word of English. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.