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I address a bouncer as "young man"

  Mon 2nd March 2020

A pub closed after "trouble", has recently re-opened. There was a table of women who looked like they'd failed auditions for parts in Eastenders, one of whom was wearing her unhappily tolerant dog like a stole. A group of men stood about vying to be pack leader through volume, ignoring the only female in their party, whom they eventually drove to her phone.


As I got to the head of the queue at a a jungle and drum n' bass night, the bouncer said "are you sure you're at the right place?"

"I tell you young man," I replied, "I was around when this music came out first time. I just want to check that the young people here are treating it properly."

Hayley and her friend Faye turned up a couple of hours later. Hayley danced for about fifteen minutes, then left me with Faye, who was undemanding, off her head, and just wanted to dance.

A man came and sat next to me. He said he had some pills which he reckoned were comprised of mdma and meth. He wanted ten pounds, which is excessive at the current exchange rate, but I bargained him down to a fiver and some mdma crystal. Arms wrapped round my shoulders, smiles, for the oldest raver in town.

Towards the end the cloakroom started emanating one of Bristol's characteristic sounds: the hiss of nitrous oxide gas canisters. Everyone on the dancefloor waggling balloons about and grinning. We were all turned into children.

Afterwards it was back to Hayley's. A dirty futon to sit on, towels for curtains. The Fish Importer was there. Hayley was unwearing a short lacy dress with wide holes in it, designed to be layered over something, with her scoop-necked black top, and black knickers. I understood then why she'd only spent fifteen minutes in the club, what we had interrupted. She'd only come to deposit Faye.

The Fish Importer -- urbane; kind and low-key with Hayley -- generously kept cooking up more and more crack for us, which Hayley was crafty enough to get an inequitable share of. He let his original story go, telling us that whilst he did indeed work as a fish importer, he is now both addicted to, and deals, crack.

"My problem is," I said, "everyone thinks I'm gay. "You are," said Hayley. "It's not funny for me, Hayley. It holds me back."

Having spent Saturday on mdma, meth, speed, and crack at a jungle rave, I thought we could ramp it up on Sunday, so I suggested we all go to see a sea shanty group. Hayley took so long getting ready, our drug soup making tasks like finding a belt complicated -- that we caught only the last two songs. Pastel pensioners and the satisfied retired, and three crackheads.

Hayley disappeared for a long time. "It's The Abuser," said Faye. "I know. She'll be Whatsapping him. I wish...she's just feeding him, not letting go." "She's never been loved, really loved. And her mum writing her out of her will. It's all she's known." I often wonder how if on the night we first met when we had rather soft-cocked sex -- speed, erections's enemy -- if I'd been harder and a bit more ruthless, whether we might now be together. Then immediately following that thought, is an aversion to the idea, knowing how much repair work I'd get involved in.

5 comments »

5 comments

Comment from: daisyfae [Visitor]

cannot imagine going to see a sea shanty group while high… for me, that might be the definition of a bad trip.

Mon 2nd March 2020 @ 23:58 You are currently replying to this comment
Comment from: Scarlet [Visitor]

“Pastel pensioners and the satisfied retired, and three crackheads.”

Ha Ha!! Sea Shanty groups encouraging cultural diversity wherever they perform.
Sx

Tue 3rd March 2020 @ 08:14 Reply to this comment
Comment from: looby [Visitor]

Ah but a woman of the world such as yourself DF will know that by the time you’ve waited around for an attractive woman to get ready, it’s worn off. It was more a general loveliness of fug we were feeling, and the cameradierie and bonhomie in the shanty pub was lovely.

Scarlet – yes, we reduced the average age and introduced a bit of glamour – well, the girls did.

Tue 3rd March 2020 @ 09:29 Reply to this comment
Comment from: kono [Visitor]

The Fish Importer is on a slippery slope, dealing and being hooked is never good in that game, i know from previous experience…

The Sea Shanty episode is hilarious!!! exactly the kind of shenanigans i love, except had the gear worn off i’d have been in the bogs keying up more (if i had any)… years ago i wrote a post on the lounge about tripping balls in this posh joint, i had dreads and was dressed in rags and ordered a draft beer to which the wine snobs all turned up their noses, when i asked if they had any little umbrellas for my drink they gave me a look of disdain, i then promptly pulled on from my shirt pocket and said, no worries i brought my own. The look on their gobs was priceless.

Thu 19th March 2020 @ 13:44 Reply to this comment
Comment from: looby [Visitor]

Brilliant kono! Subvert their expectations with a wee cocktail brolly!

Yes the Fish Importer is getting though the stuff at a rate of knots. Doesn’t bode well.

Mon 23rd March 2020 @ 09:55 Reply to this comment


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looby, n.; pl. loobies. A lout; an awkward, stupid, clownish person


M / 56 / Bristol, "the most beautiful, interesting and distinguished city in England" -- John Betjeman [1961, source eludes me].

"Looby is a left-wing intellectual who is obsessed with a) women's clothes and b) tits." -- Joy of Bex.

WLTM literate woman, 40-65. Must have nice tits, a PhD, and an mdma factory in the shed, although the first on its own will do in the short term.


There are plenty of bastards who drink moderately. Of course, I don't consider them to be people. They are not our comrades.
Sergei Korovin, quoted in Pavel Krusanov, The Blue Book of the Alcoholic

I am here to change my life. I am here to force myself to change my life.
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The more democratised art becomes, the more we recognise in it our own mediocrity.
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Tell me, why is it that even when we are enjoying music, for instance, or a beautiful evening, or a conversation in agreeable company, it all seems no more than a hint of some infinite felicity existing apart somewhere, rather than actual happiness – such, I mean, as we ourselves can really possess?
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