Sunday morning anthem:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PQsOXnZsOTg
And time for another (not so) tall tale.
Last night began innocently enough. Swamped by a plethora of journalism and literature assignments, I resigned myself to a quiet night in, chained to desk, chair, percolator and Gertrude Stein. I'd spent all afternoon at The Barracks doing a beer tasting for work, so by the time I got home I was more or less well-sauced, but I figured I could sober up and put in a few hard yards before I eventually collapsed from the exhaustion of trying to make sense from nonsense.
Once I'd got home and walked upstairs, I ran into Vainfuck, who was entertaining a waify little number from college - the Nutcracker - a magnificently slender creature, and (probably) absolutely unattainable. Would I like a wine? They'd just opened a bottle of white. Fuck, alright then: I can pass uni any day - how many golden opportunities do I get to share a drop with mates? So we snaffled the potion, ordered pizza, and had a fucking good laugh. Vainfuck and I had to restrain ourselves from showering the Nutcracker with compliments - Fuck, I had to restrain myself from building a shrine in her honour - such is the difficulty of entertaining her for an evening. Try as we might, far too much flattery flew through the filter, but the nutcracker just gurgled away happily under the effusion of attention, fully aware, as we were, that nothing was going to happen.
Just as we'd moved onto a nice bottle of Henschke (courtesy of the ex-girlfriend's generous parents many months earlier) my phone lit up with a text from The Lumberjack - my mustached, flannelette wearing mate; a man aesthetically from from the 50's; the sort of motif hipsters were trying to emulate before they got confused along the way with lenseless Wayfarers and jeans from Supre.
"Cunt, come to Archive."
Well why the fuck not? A rose is a rose is a rose is a rose, but a beer is better. Vainfuck was tying himself in Gordian knots in an effort to get his tip wet with the Nutcracker, but I wasn't keen to hand around all night trying to trap that butterfly in a web of Disney movies and sneaky-hands. Mercifully Vainfuck offered to give me a lift to get me out of the house, and so we jumped in the machine and bolted along Coro Drive, turning every red light into a drag race between us and dozens of genuinely fast cars that refused to play along.
In a snap we were outside Archive, so I said my goodbyes, wished him an awful lot of good luck, and dashed inside. Archive was all out of Cunning Ninjas - the 14% abv snake juice brewed in a cauldron somewhere in Logan - so we had to settle for The Big Dipper instead, a sly little pale ale that's about 8% pure brilliance. The boys arrived one by one, The Lumberjack and his brother, Junior; some fellow I'd never met; The Swede; Joy and the Contestant - regular fuck buddy of the Cheerleader you'll remember from some months ago, and star of a reality TV show once upon a time. The Cheerleader arrived shortly afterwards with a little hottie in tow - The Distraction - and like introducing a ball of twine to a litter of kittens, the group immediately fell apart.
As everyone began to take swipes at The Distraction, I deliberately avoided an introduction and slipped out to the 7-Eleven to pick up a deck of heinous Chinese cigarettes. On the way I met a few little nymphs from my college days, and had no idea what to say to them, so I hugged them like they might be contagious, smiled awkwardly and made an excuse to leave in a routine that I think we all would have preferred to avoid. Sailing back towards the rearward bar, I heard a harmonized version of TROLOLOLOLO resonating through the crowd, and as I squeezed between a middle aged man's birthday function, I came across the boys at the centre of unwanted attention, belting out the weird tune A Capella, The Lumberjack conducting with both hands.
Throughout the Eduard Khil impression, The Swede had been chatting to The Distraction, laying slab after slab of groundwork and getting some pretty excellent winks and coy glances. As much as I like to kid myself that it'd be better to be asexual, it's hard to ignore stripper heels, legs and a cocktail dress. So without meaning to, I did what any red-blooded male would do; I went and got drunk.
With a fresh, malty ale in hand, I flashed the Distraction a few lingering gazes to see what would happen. A smile, and a wink. Time for that introduction, apparently. In what probably constituted a massive cock-block, I sat between the Swede and the Distraction briefly, and talked about not much of anything; pretended briefly to forget her name, flirted, routine, routine. And then it felt like time to abuse my lung tissue again, so I walked out for a dart, sucked it down, and then walked back inside and bought another Dipper. A solid hand grabbed my arm from behind, and The Lumberjack was in my ear in a second:
Hurry up dickhead, toss that jar and get ready to fuck.
What?
What do you mean What? The Distraction is DTF. Ditch the beer, and sink your fucking end in.
The Swede?
Too much hair. She doesn't want a mustache ride. Take this tent.
Roger that.
So we flagged a cab - The Distraction, The Cheerleader, The Contestant and I, and zoomed towards the outskirts of West End.
As we went up to the Cheerleader's apartment I had to stifle a little laugh as the memories and irony washed over me. Graciously, the Cheerleader and Contestant played the perfect couple, setting up a single swag in the lounge room. You guys will both fit into that right? Uhm, yep. Goodnight then. Shall we head out onto the balcony? (What the fuck is it about balconies?)
The Distraction settled down onto a sumptuous leather couch facing the city and put her feet up. Did she mind if I lay down next to her? Of course she didn't. Wasn't she cold in that tiny dress? A little. So we plaited ourselves together under the pretense of staying warm, one thing leading inevitably to another, testing gradually what was acceptable.
The air outside was becoming genuinely arctic, so I carried her inside and very nearly dropped her onto the swag. Drenched from the waist down, I suggested we remove her clothes so she didn't catch chill. Hey look, no hands! And while I'm down here...
Her eyes glazed over and her head arched backwards, her hips shimmied around like it was a minor exorcism. She began communicating in unintelligible but familiar gasps. I thought she was going to tear my fucking hair out at one stage, but compassionately she let go when she realized it wasn't an anchoring point.
And suddenly an eruption of chaos as the Cheerleader and Contestant burst out their room, tears and accusations, a three-hundred decibel screaming match of white-hot anger that cut through the sultry atmosphere like a diamond saw. The Distraction and I lay frozen in position, her legs gripping me with uncertainty, as doors slammed and garages scraped open, engines firing angrily to life and drowning out some of the shrieking and awfulness.
It seemed to die down momentarily, peace temporarily restored, before the Cheerleader burst into the lounge, flung on a light and spat venomously at the Distraction: "The contestant wants to fuck you instead of me." Lights off, silence.
With the rocket launch well and truly terminated due to foul conditions, I slipped outside for a dart, lit it, and sucked in magic. My watch was glowing somewhere near four, and despite the bad craziness of a few moments earlier, I felt more or less peaceful. Back inside, the Distraction was dealing with her own private demons, so I sent the Contestant a message telling him to drive safe, and set a six o'clock alarm. Uni group members, prepare yourselves for Hungover Hugh.
Actually I've worked jobs where background, drug and alcohol testing have been done. Again, depending on the level of what's being said, as an employer I'd hope they'd use common sense to interpret what they are reading on an edittable, anonymous posting. Obviously if it was going so far to accuse someone of doing something illegal it would be different. But 'Sam is an asshole' I really don't think would change a thing...
