The Legend Of Uncle Phil

Uncle Phil was always the James Dean or James Bond of his era. Name the famous ladies’ man and he was comparable to him.

It was always his dream to work at the Casbah, the hub of all the action in his town.

At last he got a job, dealing Faro.

One night he walked over to his table fully expecting yet another of his typically droll ordinary nights with all the usual characters. Shot of Irish whisky in his left hand, Lucky Strike in his right, he prepared for the beginning of his shift, when suddenly she walked into sight.

Pippa was her name. Of all the dames he dealt with, this one broad was one local gents would call a doll. She was a black haired, pale complected overdose of lovely.

‘Single, handsome?’ she asked brazenly.

‘A man like me can’t afford to be tied down, sweetie,’ he replied with his whisky and tobacco soaked voice.

She then approached, gave the handsome stallion a slight hug, and peck upon his right cheek, and inconspicuously slipped a small sheet of paper, with her name, phone number, and room number on it, into his yellow Louis Vuitton dress shirt.

Yet again the master had left his mark upon a helpless enchantress.


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