It happened again. And, yes we should have known better. But apparently the Pavlovian dog response doesn’t apply to right-thinking humans. If I were to refer you to the post “We Never Learn” you’ll begin to see where I’m going with this.
So, picture the scene. It’s a cold evening in late January and in order to celebrate payday as well as the end of this dismal month, my friends and I decided (and I quote) “to go somewhere different for once”. How foolish of us. A few other local towns were cautiously tossed into the hat as potential destinations for our evening of silliness, Sambucca and dancing. But a decision on the location had not been reached even as I drove to our host’s house to get my ‘glam’ on for the night ahead. Inevitably, after a delicious Korma dinner, laziness (undeniably my biggest vice) got the better of us and we decided to take it back to the old school, (yep you guessed it), Guildford again.
Upon arriving at Wetherspoons, (which has actually been a ‘Lloyds’ now for at least three years, but I refuse to acknowledge this change) we were slightly mortified to find ourselves in the (how do I put this euphemistically?) bracket of the minority, “mature demographic”. In other words, the rest of the clientele resembled nursery children who’d found their mother’s make collections and gone wild! Some of the people were so infant-like, that to say that we felt like we were babysitting wouldn’t be an exaggeration. Nevertheless, we purchased our pitchers of luminous-coloured cocktails (healthy) and plonked ourselves down on a battered old sofa in a quiet(ish) corner.
A mere ten minutes later a boy (to describe him as a ‘man’ would be an outright lie) with a face so youthful I almost congratulated him for discovering the elixir of eternal life, invited himself to sit with us. “Here we go”, I thought. Emma was his victim of choice. Unimpressed within milliseconds, Emma visibly geared herself up to tell him where to go, when he whipped out a pack of cards. We all sighed simultaneously and attempted to get on with the conversation we were having before being rudely interrupted. However, Babyface was apparently having none of this. “Do you believe in Magic?” he probed in Em’s direction. “UUUUGH! That has got to be the worst ‘line’ I have EVER heard” she retorted.
Eventually, after a few pitiful attempts at impressing us the penny dropped and he gave up. As he rose to locate his next unsuspecting victim he uttered: “It was nice talking to you, even though you were incredibly rude!” Of course! How rude of us to cut to the chase (saving him the effort of continuing to waste his breath) and inform him that we weren’t in the slightest bit interested in his “trick”. How terribly inconsiderate of us, to want to continue our private conversation without the irritation of having a pre-pubescent dullard giving us earache. My mistake.
Shortly after this episode we collectively decided it was probably for the best to let the kiddies play together with their own kind, and we departed.
As we clattered up the piss-strewn high street in our tottering heels, an icy wind bit at our ankles whilst we collectively shivered/winced. “Why are we here?” I imagined was the thought running through all of our minds. Nevertheless, onwards and upwards. As we approached our next destination a flurry of gleaming yellow jackets materialised in front of us and the noise of a crowd grew louder. Now normally, an intelligent bunch of 22 year old girls would have alarm bells that should begin to ring when faced with ten police officers and bouncers outside the establishment that you intend on entering at 10.30 at night. Nope, not us. So in we went.
One thing I did manage to remember from the last time we entered this dungeon of doom was to avoid the dreaded VK at all costs, or pay the price of forever losing your tastebuds. Instead of purchasing overpriced bottled-sugar sweat we headed for the loos (an ancient female ritual whose sanctity must not be taken lightly.)
Amongst the clientele dans le WC were the obligatory gaggle of round-bellied, ample bosomed, Ann-Summers-outfit-clad hen do party. One of them was crying. Already. Another sat in a pile on the floor. I glanced down to mind where I was stepping, haphazardly avoiding the girl whom had chosen to land in a heap right in my path, and as I entered a cubicle I came across a pile of what could only be described as green ectoplasm. Unfortunately, I hasten to add that I doubted highly that anyone within a fifty mile radius of this dive would have the intellectual capacity to conjure up any form of chemical or biological substance, unless it came from within their bowel. Which this putrid little blob evidently had done. I decided my bladder could wait, so we made our way to the dancefloor.
After a good twenty minutes of shoving, elbowing and eventually finding a suitable pervert-free spot to dance we settled into our groove and started letting our hair down. After about bout half an hour of vigorous boogie-ing I went to get some water from the bar. As I returned to the group, I found them giggling hysterically and pointing. It turns out, while I’d been gone a gangly, pock-faced youth had started grinding on innocent little Charlotte, who obviously had not taken great delight in this act. When she turned to shoo him away apparently he had taken the rejection badly and spat the word “virgins!” at the girls before stomping off in a hissy fit. Possibly the best and simultaneously worst insult I have EVER heard!
By this point it was definitely time to call it a night. To make the evening even more joyus, on the way down to the taxi rank we encountered two balding squadies who yelled “girls!” in our direction, to which Row responded with “No shit, Sherlock.” They didn’t like that one bit and within milliseconds we’d gone from sexually desirable objects to (and I quote) “F***ing dogs.” Delightful.
By the time we finally got in a cab, the bulbus-nosed driver who was decidedly bigoted and slightly racist (“You can tell he’s Asian because look at the way he’s got his wheels in my lane. You can bet any money he’s gonna cut me up”) actually came as a relief and perhaps even came across as comparatively a good catch.
I think next time I’ll just stay in. Or drink a hell of a lot more!
