I promised you normal service and I think I’ve just about provided it, given that my ‘normal’ service involves a vague promise of regular posts followed by a couple of weeks of nothing punctuated with a flurry of comments on other blogs somewhere in the middle…

Suffice to say I’ve done bugger all these past few weeks. I’ve been working at the cinema and doing DIY at my parents’ house but, other than that, I’ve had a single trip out of town and that’s everything of interest. Mind you, that trip was a little too interesting. It was a weekender spread across Lincoln and Nottingham, visiting Vlad and some of the rest of the Donny crew before heading up to my sister’s house in Notts for a second night of drinking.

If I’d had any sense, I wouldn’t have been so self-destructive at Lincoln when I had two nights of beer planned. I had two cans of Strongbow just on the train there. Then when I got to Vlad’s place (via a pub) I ended up trying weed for the first time. This was not sensible while already drunk. I was out of my face, fell unconscious for half an hour, threw up a few times, got up in the night to throw up a few more times, then got up in the morning and threw up again. It was the third worst hangover I’ve ever had.

My sister picked me up at Nottingham station and took me to ASDA for a beer shop (where I also bought Lucozade sport to cure my hangover) and then I had soup before the house party started. I also had a nap and a shower (where I had to scrub my face to remove the marker-pen penis Freddie drew on me while I was unconscious).

The party was okay, and I had a miraculously good time considering how shitty I felt when I got up that morning, but some odd things happened. An old friend of my sister’s (I’ll call her Julie, for no particular reason) brought her best mate along. He had scars up his arms in a series of short, neat lines. Both he and Julie had black wide-brimmed hats. My kid brother brought the bassist/singer from his band along (let’s call this bassist Luke, just ’cos). Luke is a complete sleaze-bucket when he’s drunk (and I mean that in a good way) and was getting on rather well with Julie (about ten years his senior), Julie’s mate (let’s call him the Twat in the Hat, a name coined by Charlemagne, for reasons to be revealed), and my brother (obviously), to the point where Ubelinde asked me if my brother ‘does boys’. Both my brother and Luke were off their faces on vodka (swigged straight from the bottle, without mixers) for the whole evening. Julie crashed out early on in a tent erected on the lawn. This when things got weird…

The Twat in the Hat was pissed. So pissed he stumbled into Charlemagne’s kit (Charlemagne is a DJ by trade) twice, something no-one has ever managed to do in three years of drunken parties full of inebriated hi-jinks. He also managed to knock a large bowl off a worktop that wasn’t even near the edge. It got to the point where two blokes who are usually daft as brushes started raising their hackles because of him.

I was stood outside the conservatory. The Twat in the Hat comes over to me and starts asking me strange questions. They started with a bizarrely insecure one: something about Luke’s behaviour being attention-seeking and why is everyone giving him the leeway? I answered that he was only eighteen (my sister is over ten years my senior and besides myself, Luke and my brother there was no-one under twenty-five there that night). Then the conversation got random. I forget the next bit, but it led into him asking me what my role in life was. Thinking that by keeping him talking I’d be keeping him out of mischief I answered. I told him that it appears that I’m the kind of person who is always noticed but never at the centre of a group and that I see my function as being to do good – to look after those who need it. We were leant on the garden fence with the party continuing in the house behind us.

He told me I was wrong then started rambling for a bit before asking why I was here. Not really understanding what he was getting at, I explained that I was the hostess’ brother and about my trip via Lincoln – covering all bases, I suppose. I posed him the same question adding that I assumed he was something to do with Julie. He answered that he wasn’t. And when I repeated the original question, he just shrugged and asked me why I thought he was there. Maybe it was lingering paranoia from the previous night’s excesses, but I had the feeling he was some kind of emissary from the devil sent to instil me with self-doubt. He assumed a creepy grin.

I told him you can’t kid a kidder. I use that grin myself when I’m trying to freak people out (and I do it a lot better because I have fangs). At this point Luke appeared and asked what we were up to. The Twat in the Hat growled and said, ‘He’s mine,’ before rugby tackling Luke. A lot of other weird stuff happened before my sister spent an hour convincing the Twat in the Hat to go to bed before someone kicked off but my tale is told.


~ by Scary Rob on 7 August, 2005.

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