| Erghhhh....Part 2. |
[28 Oct 2004|09:06am] |
Yes....it's good to see you all this morning, though I fear this will be a spirited but brief trip onto Blurty; i'm feeling the effects a little of a lot of drinking.
Though not to the level that I cannot update.
Okay, let's begin.....we rode at about 7:15, in Stuart's brother's car...a lenghty description as I cannot remember his name...Rich? Mike? Bill? All three? Rich will suffice. This gent drove us straight to the door of the restaurant, if you please. Such a nice chap! No walking, and a restaurant at the end of our vehicular ride.
Splendid. The Chinese place (That I foolishly forgot to note for you), was a rigidly formed place, with about three rows of finely laid crushed white tables....light pink beautiful napkins, and a small bar situated in a right angled corner. If you can imagine a rectangle with a square in the corner, that's pretty much the layout, without tables.
We were shown to seats, and commenced eyeballing menus...I questioning Stuart on every micro-aspect, simply to see if there were any questions that could rile him, and indeed this is where the dad thing began.
Dad? What? The DAD thing.
Well, as it was a group comprising Bolb, myself and Stuart...it looked a bit like a family outing...Stuart is quite a bit taller than either of us, so we commenced with rather poorly maintained ruse that he was our father.
"Oi, dad! Why do you get drunk every night, and take us drinking with you? WE JUST WANT TO GO HOME!"
This carried on ALL night.
Oh dear, the head is hitting me now. Oh my.
I couldn't believe the menu. All kinds of stuff...satay chicken, bang bang chicken, chicken wings, and these weer just the appetizers. You could apparently have anything for the single price. The rather oddball catch was that if you left a dish, you paid full price for it.
I suppose this is based on wasteage, or something. We ordered several appetizers, comprising prawn bread, bang bang chicken, crispy duck, and some seaweed stuff that tasted rather like tiny bits of melting barbed wire. Lovely, all of it. By the second lot I was stuffed...we had some wine and Bolb and Stuart had a main, while I groaned......
During all this I had discovered the chortles of trying to use chopsticks like they were batons, and washing my fingers in a little bowl.
"This bowl?"
"Yeah?"
"What's it for?"
"Washing your fingers"
"Oh, i thought it was a drink...like a really shallow poured vodka"
We paid up and left eventually, shifting away, thoroughly crammed with some extremely nice food. I think my favourite was the Bang Bang chicken, so explosive they named it twice. I don't however think I have the right name here, it was a gorgeous haystack of strips of chicken with a peanut sauce, and a cucumber bed. Very nice. And cold as ice cream too.
The merry band wandered, now truly "up for it" in the being out sense...and our rain speckled footsteps took us to Yates, and it's noisy atmosphere, bass combining with shouting to form a gloriously rare cacophony. Rare to us, at any rate. We don't often do this you see. Well, Bolb and I don't. More drinks. and a vial of something that looked like black tequila, but may as well have been an experiment. Bolb knocked it back with gusto and we all downed more drinks as if they weren't expensive toxic beverages.
Groan. We would watch the screens, baulking at the flesh obsessed drinking culture that we've becoming entwined it through association. Music videos played through tits and ass, our current number one single playing like a lesson to us all...females gyrating in front of letcherous men....the music is secondary...in this case a trashy cover of a Stevie Winwood hit from the eighties, of equal dreadfulness, but also without the terrible video.
Averting from that then, we enjoyed ourselves, veins loosening slightly from booze, and I was distracted by a small maggot size eyebrowed gentleman with sinking black eyes and a tiny frame.
"Can I nick this chair mate?", he burbled, drink in hand, and rather enthusiastically, having a drink in hand, and probably a few in his gut.
"Yeah, go for it, son..." I replied...
"You're the best! You are the best! You know what you are...you're the...you're the best!" he said, over and over agian, as if I was a jesus of chairs, or something.
"You don't know how right you are," shouted Bolby, to this gent, and he departed to sit with his friends, happy with his prize.
We went back to it, then. Finishing drinking in there, we left and laughed the streets...you see you don't walk these streets after a point, pure laughter gas gets you around, jumping, spinning, walking backwards....we continued with the "dad" thing, me jumping up and down shouting "Dad! I'm taller than you when I jump", whilst Stuart walked laughing bemusedly, Bolb chortling and the group fell into another place, the quietest of the four we visited, a genial barmaid serving us with a smile and a quip. Truly a rare thing.
More drink, more hilarious accusations flung at our surrogate "father", and gazing at the faces in this place, this sea of desperation. It was the most miserable place too, those with companions looking bored, those without looking suicidal. Kept wanting to run around with a balloon tied to my head motioning people upwards and to "cheer up a bit".
But I did not. Finally, we crashed into Punch And Judy, music wall sucking our ears out, terrible versions of "My way", and "She Bangs", being sung in the worst cockney drawl imaginable. A sort of drunken adaptation of Dick Van Dyke in "Mary Poppins", the reality being this was the man's actual accent. How can you make your OWN accent sound fake?
Er...anyway...more booze, more shouting, hugging and obtuse angles increasing exponentially, as we bacame more and more wankered, I really starting to enjoy myself, and this curious novelty of having to slip through crowds simply to get to the toilets. How many ways can you shout "Excuse me, mate"?
Being in a slipstream, rather. If you find the right path through, it's like a river...you can get through what seems the impenetrable...a river....hang onto the person in front..you'll get through every time...
Once the kareoke SHAMBLISTS left, decks went on and people drifted up to the dance area, a tiny play rammed with revellers, and us, by now clanking bottles like skittles, hugging, dancing, and laughing loudly.
"B!"
"P!"
"B & P!"
"B & P & S! D!"
You get the idea. For about five minutes last night, all we did was pretened to punch each other rapidly, whilst shouting a remix of the above. Anarchic.
I think we were finished at about two. I'm not sure. We rode with a weary taxi driver, and came home.
Right, that's your lot. I'm off to bed.
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