Jeremy Dennis is Jeremy Day (cleanskies) wrote,
Jeremy Dennis is Jeremy Day

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old and boring

Boys suck. Bands rock. What was I doing going out on a Wednesday night anyway?

God in heaven. This hangover's barely started yet, and it's already a horror.

Alex. Alex txted me as I was on the last panel of my weekly strip. We'd all arranged to go and see a band and he was the only one who'd turned up. He was making eyes at the lead singer of the band we were going to see with one hand and fighting off underage goth girls with the other. So I finished the strip (boy, did it fight back! bastard! And I looked at it today and there are two mistakes! Nooooo!) and hiked off to rescue his virtue from the hordes of screaming teenage girls we were expecting after our experiences at the last Sexy Breakfast gig.

I should have known it was going to be one of those nights when I got to the busstop at the same time as the bus and the bussdriver stopped for me and smiled at me. Wierd.

We were. We were at this bar I'd not really been to since it was The Dolly (loud rock music, sticky floors, drunk teenagers). It was now the Cellar and way more salubrious, with art on the wall and everything. It also had a decent sound system --- major relief after the general shiteness of The Wheatsheaf, and we could hear both of the bands, and hey, they didn't suck.

Oh my sweet jesus. I just realised I can genuinely say "What the fuck was I drinking last night??"

Anyway, the story. Yes. This kind of hammered guy popped a lens (glasses, not contacts) while drunkenly dancing with one of the two pretty teenage girls (school night) who were still uprightish in a space I'd been watching (light was catching the floor, so people's legs had become soft black cut-outs on a sea of gold; I was watching them come and go, obscuring and revealing the eerie slow-motion cycle of a tennis pub game, with the low ceiling above them like the cut-off point at the top of a comics panel) and I saw them stop dancing, and stare at the floor, and from where I was standing, a very obvious glint, way over to the left of them. So I gave him back his lens before it got trodden on.

Yeesh. Let no good deed go unpunished. And what is it with taxi drivers? And guys who just keep on on on asking when you're obviously not interested, not in them and not in sex with them and honestly you're going off the entire idea of having sex ever again ever ...

Nrrr the story. Right. He then hugged me and thanked me with as great hysteria as if I'd just saved his life! From monsters! On fire! While being pursued by weasels! And he bought me a drink, which was fine, and hugged me which was OK, but then it went on and on, and I wasn't really up to having a new friend for life plying me with overproof alcohol and drunken professions of whatever. ... and, caught in the endless hug-cycle, I missed the last couple of songs by Sexy Breakfast, including their awesome cover of Aled Jones' Walking in the Air.

I remember that it was black, sweet and smelt of aniseed. That I drunk it and he shouted, No! You set it on fire first! I shrugged and handed it back to him. You can set the dregs on fire, I said.

And the night went on, and we found the lead singer and complained about the lack of teenage fanclub (school night). He looked evasive. I chatted to some other people, the usual "where are you from, what is that accent" conversation. The usual "he's not my boyfrind" conversation. The usual "goodness that guy was a bit drunk" conversation. Unplaceable, unattached, unavailable, me.

The night wore on (school night). Eventually the bar closed (school night!) and we went our separate ways.

And then, on the way home, a taxi driver pulled up, and started hitting on me, and wouldn't stop. I was too drunk to be upset by him, but as he went on I was getting more and more annoyed.

Actually, thinking back on it, that was a pretty bad situation. Too drunk to notice by then (evil, evil booze) and by the time I got home, too drunk to open the door. Damian!

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