A continental squeeze

'Some guy just tried to pick me up," I said incredulously to my friend Paul as we hurriedly left the Dublin Bookshop on Grafton Street.

"Romanian powerlifter, was he?" Paul sneered.

"Funny guy. I'm serious. This Italian guy just tried to pick me up."

"Shirt's a bit gay, I suppose. Too many stripes," he reasoned bizarrely.

"Moron."

"Alright, alright," he said in a conciliatory tone when we had settled down with a drink in Kehoe's pub a few minutes later. "Tell me what happened."

"Right. Get this. I'm standing there, checking out the new releases and what have you, when I notice this guy standing beside me. Like, really close to me, yeah? And you know what I'm like with people invading my personal space. But I was there first, you know? So I thought I'd stand my ground and he'd sod off. But no. He picks up a book and starts flicking through it. And then he starts talking to me…"

"Smooth operator. What'd he say?" asked Paul, not taking the situation as seriously as I would have liked.

"He says, 'Scuzee. Deese book? How much ees it?' It had a promo sticker on the front, you know? €8.99 I think it was, and the regular price on the back, €10.95 or whatever. So when I hear the foreign accent, I relax a bit on the invasion of personal space thing – it's the continental way, you know? Having said that, I would have thought it was obvious enough that someone'd know that the lowest price displayed on a given item would be the price they'd pay…"

"Oh, would you relax?" Paul interrupted. "The guy was just checking with you."

"Yeah, right. Checking me out, more like. Now shut up and listen to me, would you? So anyway, I point to the sticker on the front cover and nod at him, telling him that that's what'll he'll have to pay, thinking that'll be the end of it. Not by a long shot. He's all smiles, says thanks, and then asks me if I'm Irish. I say yeah I am, and then he says he 'ees Eetalee', like he's representative of the country as a whole. And then he holds out his hand, yeah? So I go to shake his hand quickly – didn't want to offend the chap – and…"

"No, that wouldn't be you at all, would it?"

"Not at all, exactly. But when we shake hands, he grabs my hand really tight and stares directly into my eyes, like he was trying to communicate telepathically with me or something. Wouldn't let go of my poxy hand – totally exceeded international conventions governing first physical contact with same-sex strangers. So I'm getting a bit freaked at this stage, and start looking around to see if anyone else has sussed what's going on. And your man's still there, squeezing the shit out of my hand. And there was definite caressing going on too."

"Trying to tell you something there, alright, I'd say," Paul said snidely.

"'I am Luca. I am Eetalee,' he says to me. 'Alan,' I said, trying to stay cool – didn't want the situation going off half-cocked like…"

"Full cock, more like, if Luca had anything to do with it," says Paul, a little too loudly for my liking, and much to the bemusement of the other patrons seated at the long table in the Market Bar. "And what's this 'Alan' shit? Since when do you call yourself Alan?"

"It's one of my stage names. So that's definitely it. I've done my bit for international relations, I just…"

"One of your stage names?" Paul interrupted again. "What the hell do you need a stage name for?"

"Everybody uses stage names. You gotta have a stage name. They're handy. For talking to people you don't like or think you're never gonna meet again, you know? Especially foreigners. Just give them a name that's easy to understand so you're not saying it a hundred times and they're making a huge effort to pronounce it right."

"You're such a tit, do you know that?"

"I know. So Luca's there, halting the blood flow to my right hand, obviously waiting for me to suggest we go back to mine for a bit of bum tennis or what have you…"

"Jesus, no. What'd you do?"

"I wrenched my hand free and gave him a real stern look. And then I just shifted over a little bit. He finally got the message and split. Upstairs actually – you passed him coming down. Probably thought he'd try his luck with someone in the biography section."

"I didn't notice him," Paul said accusingly.

"You're not his type," I said laughing. "You wanna get yourself a stripey shirt."