I went out to celebrate RJG's birthday the other week. Returning back through Bangor at midnight, I peered through the window of a nightclub to find it surprisingly crowded for a Monday night. Flipping the stout doorkeep a shilling to mind my cane and cape, I ventured inside.
The place was fairly heaving with dreadful young people. Most of the girls were dressed in similar fashion; long floral print dresses and strappy heels. Nice. But their hair had that wild, Winehouse, artificially distressed look, sometimes involving a flat top and big sides. They were wearing lots of bright, bold unnecessary lipstick. Gilding the lily, in many cases. A cross between classic Laura Ashley with hair and make up by their five year old sisters.
The fellas were dressed in identikit fashion too: skinny jeans, polo shirts with random numbers and letters printed on or lumberjack shirts. I hope they didn't pay too much for them. If so, then maybe they should club together and buy in bulk. They'd save a fortune. They also had carefully wild, 'There's Something About Mary' style hair.
I, of course, was dressed in timeless style. My dark velvet Louis Feraud jacket which I got cheap on Ebay because the woman selling it spelled 'Feraud' as 'Ferraux.' My early 1990s Ben Sherman shirt with its many tiny squares of blue. My smart brown Element skateboarding trousers which I got from the bargain rail at TK Maxx. My tan brown Marks and Spencer shoes.
I'm giving you a mental line drawing here. You'll have to fill in the technicolour detail from the pastel palette of the artbox of your imagination. I'm sure your inward eye will be seeing a pretty impressive image right now.
I sidled up to the bar and bought a whiskey. Over three quid! Not shy. They should have a hoist to lift you up by the ankles and shake you for change.
Then to the edge of the dancefloor. A seated young blonde lady looked at me and smiled. Then she turned and said something to her friend. Then she looked back and smiled again. I didn't talk her because I am naturally shy and there was a great big high medieval sort of a table between us surrounded by many young women. Like a banqueting table. Later, one of these young women tapped me on the shoulder and pointed to her blonde friend. I have no idea what this meant. But I wasn't about to dive over a big high table and ask 'How's your father, is your mother still working?' It would have been easier to crawl underneath it, anyhow. Though possibly less socially acceptable.
I noticed everyone was drinking wine. I asked this long narrow streak of a girl why so. She told me it was because wine was half price. 'By the glass or the bottle?' I enquired. 'Oh by the bottle,' she replied, as it were the query of the fool.
So I bought a bottle of rosé. Californian Zinfandel. Don't know if you've tried this stuff but it's a syrupy, sweet concoction. The sort of wine you might serve to toddlers at a kids party, if it wasn't 10% alcohol.
I'd already had a few drinks at the pub so I was soon rather merry. I danced a bit, or rather moved my legs rhythmically on the spot. However, I soon noticed something terrible. No-one on the dancefloor was really dancing. They were posing. And taking pictures of each other, or themselves, with their camera phones! They would move a little, stop, snap, move, stop, snap, until they got fed up and did something else.
When did this start? I went out clubbing last year and young people were still dancing in a fairly unselfconscious fashion.
There was one young beanpole fella in spray on jeans, white sneakers, a tight green top and Sonic the Hedgehog hair. He was acting as a sort of paparazzo for a blonde girl beside me. She would dance a little, then pose with her hair all flicked up and her hand behind her head in faux-model fashion while he grinned boofishly and took photos of her. Now, I'm no DCI Gene Hunts. But such a bloke should hand back his penis and testicles and resign as a member of the male sex, no?
I sank back the bottle of wine in about 15 minutes and went to the bar for a second. Memories start to become a bit hazy at this point. I remember the girl who was smiling at me earlier dancing with me but she was taking pictures of herself too so I went off her in disgust. Plus she was very small and I am tall, and by that stage I could only focus on things which were close to me due to the effects of the alcohol.
Some other people took pictures of me, or posed with me in a group portrait, presumably because to them I am 'a character.' I suppose these have been added to social networking photo galleries somewhere. Dear Lord. I saw them taking photos of that little Asian bloke who goes crazy on the dancefloor too. He is also 'a character.'
The last thing I remember is necking wine from the bottle and smiling at the bouncers as they eyed me warily. At that point my memories black out.
When I awoke next day I was still drunk. Later, I would discover that I had withdrawn all the money from my bank account. Thankfully, I reclaimed most of it from my wallet. But not all. I also learned some information my nine year old neighbour, Hungarian Matty. He told me that I woke him and his mum Zsuzsanna with a mixture of my roaring and singing (roarsing?) I then collapsed against a car, lay down on the road for a while before crawling indoors. I had to apologise to the pair of them.
I probably woke the rest of the street up too. But I'm not apologising to them. If I can't remember it happening, and they don't mention it, then it Didn't Happen.
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