I’m on the town every night. If you see me, wave. I’ll be at the back, fast-forwarding through a cheap imported Mexican video showing people with moustaches buggering a donkey. I want to find out if the donkey gets to smoke a cigarette at the end.
I’m heading to Mike’s birthday party in Cowley. Mike’s a really great guy, a lovely, lovely guy, a good mate. I don’t like him, so all I’ve bought him for his birthday is a copy of National Lampoon’s Loaded Weapon 1 I got from the newsagent on the way up. Mike will like this, because he will think it is “ironic”. The thing that’s ironic is that despite Mike being a really great guy, a lovely, lovely guy and a good mate, I’m only coming to this godawful party to steal as much of his booze as I can get away with, and possibly his girlfriend.
The party is a disaster. There is nothing to drink but some really scary looking gin that comes in a bottle with a white label saying ‘GIN’ in enormous black letters and ‘Made in London’ in much smaller black letters. There are no mixers because Mike forgot to get any from Tescos before it closed, and no-one else cares because they just want to get absurdly caned and talk about their miserable wankoff non-careers in student drama. Mike’s friends are working on a new version of Waiting for Godot at the Balliol Pilch Theatre. In their production, all the actors will stand on one leg and speak with crap, slightly racist fake Irish bog accents. They wrongly believe that this makes them interesting.
I wander down the hallway and bump into Greg. Greg went to a minor public school on the southeast coast that got closed down a few years ago, after the villagers invaded and began worshipping the statue of the school’s most famous old boy (Rick Astley) as a god. It was like The Wicker Man, except with less wicker and more nylon.
I’d like to ignore Greg or pretend I don’t know who he is, but I can’t, because he’s naked and shouting something at me about Teddy Hall. I realise with some pleasure that he has a rather small and thin penis, and sell him a gram of crushed up Crunchy Nut Corn Flakes that I pretend is coke for £100.
There’s a call on my mobile. It’s Paul, a guy from college who likes to talk about the fact that he drinks Real Ale. He wants to meet up with me for a pint (of Real Ale) and a sad-bloke discussion about the break-up of his relationship. Normally I would avoid this, but Paul has an extraordinarily silly voice that suggests he comes from a weird regional hell-hole. If this “girlfriend” turns out to be his sister, I’m willing to listen. I say goodnight to Mike, but he’s too high to notice I’ve gone.
ARCHIVE: 2nd Week TT 2003
On the Town
