Gangster. Word.
Today we are in wonderful, wonderful Copenhagen.
A pity everything is so pricey for "us" Swedes nowadays. Even beer costs an arm and a leg. It's nice beer, mind, so the loss of limb(s) is almost worth it.
Today a member of the A-Team (Copenhagen division) staggered up to us as we were sitting in one of the squares by the main drag drinking a crafty beer in the sun (us, not him...I mean, we were the ones drinking at this point - he'd obviously finished his stash). He was clutching the usual plastic bag full of returnable beer/pop bottles and sporting an unusually awful mullet of some distinction. He appeared to have cut his own fringe with a blunt pocket-knife, leaving the back to its own devices. Lush.
Upon spying our table he blundered over and proceeded to mutter at us. I think the general gist was "Give me some money. For booze". Although I could be wrong, Danish people talking confuses me. Of course, I was having none of it and sent him on his way with a flea in his ear.
Most bizarrely of all, however, the gentleman didn't appear to be wearing any underpants. Or indeed trousers. Now there's something you don't see every day.
Nor would you wish to. Ew ew ew.
