Beneath the towering sign jutted a roof lined
with flashing lights. Under its shelter, stern-looking
bouncers guarded the stygian entrance to Cleopatra's
nightclub. Once they reached the front of the
queue, these menacing steroids in suits waved
in Greg. But, self-important eyes critical and
brows rutted, they looked askance at Howard
and carefully inspected his appearance. With
curled lips of grudge they let him past.
He was in!
Greg flirted with the cloakroom attendant, who
charged them each fifty pence for the compulsory
service of storing their coats. Another three
pounds per admission ticket saw them passing
through a black corridor encrusted with flashing,
ruby lights.
Howard felt his drunken senses immersed in deafening
pop, whirring lights and excitement. The place
was a writhing tangle of besuited students,
dance floors and bars. Everywhere was gloomy,
with low localised lighting here and there,
demented and spasmodic light effects over the
dance floors and homely lighting over the bars.
The bars were deep in layers of revellers, slavishly
trying to get at the half-price, watered-down
booze.
'Your round, matey!' notified Greg.
It took Howard over ten minutes to get served.
In his haste, it seemed three times as long.
Once he reached the bar itself it wasn't so
bad. Then he concentrated on catching the eye
of the bar staff. There was a maximum limit
of four drinks per person but they those drinks
poured with all the haste of a Caribbean lifestyle.
Feeling the pressure he watched as insipid brown
liquid drained languidly from lacklustre electronic
dispensers.
Being hemmed in by a few layers of clammy bodies
was conducive to overheating. Howard sweated
as he felt himself badly in need of his pint.
He put his elbow into a pool of liquid on the
black plastic bar surface and swore. Any sound
produced from his mouth was swamped by
Stock
Aitken and Waterman-produced disco. During
his life, Christians had tried to impose upon
him the belief that God was all around. Everywhere.
He was necessitous of proof of this and was
offered none. If it was true though, and there
was a God, and that God was literally all around
as the Christians preached, then he was glad
that God didn't come in the form of ninety decibel
Stock Aitken and Waterman tunes. At least
God was quiet, and unsensed. The thought of
the universe being utterly pervaded by Rick
Astley's or Kylie Minogue's, "
music"
made him shudder with revulsion.
A hustled-looking barmaid in a skimpy black
top and naked waist exchanged his coins for
four plastic pints of dubious nightclub bitter.
Howard and Greg, thus endowed, found a niche
by a wall overlooking the main dance floor and
absorbed their environment. Numerous bopping
bodies on the dance floor shuddered a staccato
wave, gyrating their hips at one other with
abandon. The music overwhelmed, pumping its
rhythm into the undulating crowd with gleeful
assault. A song trailed off and the club DJ
spoke. Howard spied him in an elevated box at
the side of the dance floor. He wore a yellow
suit, black shirt and a luminous pink tie. His
long hair was tied back into a ponytail. The
tautness of the hair emphasised its recession
at the temples. He spoke. The amplified words
were delivered with such self-pleasured tones
he seemed to embody the idea of an aural Narcissus.
'Time,' cried the DJ, 'for your butts to hit
the floor, for I'll be dropping the crazy Cleopatra
diamond needle on
Jelly Bean vinyl anytime
now, yes, we're out of order tonight! Check
it out! Wicked! Cool! I've just got time to
thank you all for coming here again tonight.
With drinks at half-price you can get drunk
on a tenner! You know, I could get very merry
on that, so, heh, get down to it folks! Later
we'll be inviting a
famous footballer
into the mike box for a quick chat, so get ready
you girls to feast your eyes on The Reds' lush
top substitute striker! Be sure to check him
out! He might be
scoring with
you
if your luck's in tonight! Brilliant! We have
some wicked tunes for you tonight! Cool! We're
out of order! And now its time to
heat
to the
beat with
Jelly Bean!'
No sooner had the word
Bean echoed forth
than Cleopatra's was vibrating and pulsing once
again.
Over the music, Greg shouted disparaging remarks
about the featured footballer. 'Kicks a ball
around a park and then thinks he's bleeding
God. My granny could have nodded in that cross:
he totally fucked up last week!'
Howard agreed, although he had no knowledge
of the game Greg referred to.
Greg began to quiz him on his footballing knowledge.
'Christ, check out the bangers on that!' bid
Howard by way of diversion. He nodded at a passing
girl.
Greg laughed. 'Blimey! They get bigger and better
after every pint. Same again! My round.'
Shit! thought Howard,
he's downed
those two quick. He drained his first and
began to slurp at his second.
Greg waded heavily over to the bar. Howard peered
around him. Through the darkness he could see
gyrating bodies, people watching the gyrating
bodies and people queuing up for a drink. He
pondered that the drink would presumably make
the gyrating bodies seem more interesting; more
attractive; more accessible; more saucily shaped.
The drink might alternatively make the drinkers
want to gyrate themselves. It might grant them
courage enough to persuade a gyrating body to
gyrate with
them. He was hoping for the
intimate gyration outcome. He was
relying
on it!
He was feeling past it now. But not in the usual
way. He was feeling
odd.
Over the far side of the dance floor he saw
Drijk. Drijk was saying something to his light
haired companion. Her body language showed she
had a spirited interest in his words. He spoke
to her but seemed indifferent to her. Gulping
his beer, Howard wondered if an air of indifference
was attractive to women. Perhaps pretty women
were drawn to indifference because they were
unnerved by it. Such an experience, taken for
granted by the mediocre, must be chilling for
those who are gorgeous and coveted.
Drijk appeared to be staring back at him. He
was right across the club and yet right up close,
as if he could reach out and touch his face.
The music was a subliminal beat now, he was
barely conscious of its ubiquity. He was mildly
aware of menace.
Greg returned, laden with pints.
'Here, Howard,' said Greg, 'I was just chatting
to the barmaid and you'd not believe what she
said- Howard? You look higher than a kite. Been
on the funny fags?'
'Greg! Brilliant! Drink beer and shit, er... you
got to smoke, right? Smoke shit, and, er, got
to pull! Yeah, shit you got to...'
'Oh
shit! What the fuck you been taking
man? Don't answer that.
Sodom and Gomorrah!
You bleeding moron! Here, lie under this bleeding
table, I'll come back for you.
'Brilliant!'
Greg returned after a few minutes.
'You look shitfaced! Shit! Lets get you home.
I hope you bloody realise it was me and that
barmaid and one prophylactic tonight until you
go and get whammoed.'
'Brilliant!'
Howard closed his eyes to find himself rushing
through the air at breakneck speed. The wind
was rushing past him. He was accelerating mercilessly.
It would kill him! He forced his eyes open.
He felt disorientated. His head lolled. His
eyes felt like they were spinning randomly in
his head.
'Well, I'd better not drink too much if I've
gotta get you back, you horse's ass.'
So saying, Greg exercised restraint. He knocked
back three of the four pints he had at his disposal.
He heaved Howard inanimate arm around his shoulder
and started to stagger towards the exit.
'Yeah. Brilliant.' Despite his choice of words,
Howard didn't sound enthusiastic. He was mindlessly
saying the first thing that came to him, much
like a backwards parrot.'
'Look, I need a burst,' slurred Greg. He guided
the uncoordinated Howard into the gents. Speakers
in the toilets conveyed the sounds from the
main arena. They related the carefully chosen,
ultra-casual words of the DJ to the rows of
men lined up at the Armitage Shanks furniture.
'
Pet Shop Boys there,' burbled the DJ,
'funkin' some cool electric stuff here in Groove
City. OK! Calling all party-crazed freaks out
there! Get down and shuffle your stuff to
this.
It's
hot. It's
sharp. It's cool!
Check out that wicked, saucy
sorceress!
We're out of order tonight! Take it away, Madonna,
OOW!!!'
Howard lay on the toilets floor. Incapacitated
he was hauled onto the street by Greg.
'G'night,' said one of the door bouncers. 'Looks
like your mate's enjoyed himself.'
'You're not bleeding kidding, mate!' bemoaned
Greg. 'Shitfaced! I don't believe this! A night
at Cleo's and I don't get any action! That's
a bleeding first! Tell anyone I'm leaving Cleo's
with a
bloke and I'll bleeding kill you!'
The bouncer chuckled.
The blast of cold, outside air breathed some
clarity into his mind. He concentrated on walking,
coordinating his legs and following the steer
of Greg's supporting arm.
***
*****
***
Howard sensed being dragged out of a black cab.
Having been lugged into the house, he slumped
to the floor of the hall.
'Gallie, get your bleeding arse down here and
quick!'
'Greg, is that you?' Gallie's came running down
the stairs. 'You're early. Oh my God, get him
to the bathroom!'
Howard felt his stomach contract. Gallie dashed
into the kitchen and returned with a bucket.
He let loose.
Matter that resembled dashed root vegetables
in a beery stew was soaking into the threadbare
hall carpet. The bucket was empty.
'Dunno what he's taken,' thundered Greg. 'You're
looking at a drugged up fucker here. I left
him for ten minutes and he went all peculiar
and weird on me.'
'He's just drunk.'
'I doubt it. Not
just drunk. If he was
just drunk I'd have left him under the
bleeding table! Look at his fucking eyes. They're
dilated! He never offered any drugs to me, the
chundering bastard!'
'Christ! Should we call a doctor do you think?'
'
Sodom and Gomorrah! Don't be ludicrous!
It won't just be bleedin' medics making enquiries
about what sort of shit he's taken. Get real,
woman, use yer bleeding noggin!'
***
*****
***
Howard became aware of being shunted onto his
bed.
'Hey, can you hear me Howie? It's me, Gallie!
Howie?'
Her melodious voice sweetened his poisoned mental
turmoil. He deemed he was hearing in a dream.
How he loved and craved that dulcet voice. It
quavered his emotions.
He was in Heaven. A weeping angel was massaging
his broken body. Her soothing tears healed his
torn flesh.
Another voice broke through, this one deep,
trenchant, not welcome.
'You OK? Can you hear me? Daddy Greg here!'Cause
if you
can hear me, I want you to know
how really,
really worried I am about
you, you stupid bleeding tosser! I had something
going with that barmaid and that's just for
starters! Here I am, back from a night at Cleo's
empty handed. Un-fucking-presidented! Man I
need a blowjob!'
'Ohhhh, leave him alone, you big bully!' Gallie
scolded softly. 'Judging by the state of the
poor thing you should be grateful he's still
alive, the poor thing! You can't be trusted
to look after
anyone, can you Greg? Can
you help me put him in the recovery position
in case he's sick again please?'
'
Poor thing? Sodom and Gomorrah! By the
time I've finished with him he'll be a
poor
thing! When he's feeling better, I'll kick
the living shit out of the stupid bastard!'
Howard fell from the euphoric clutch of the
heavenly angel and sank screaming into the bleak
pits of Hell, whereupon he was beaten brutally
by laughing demons. Their acid spit burned his
tender flesh.
Gallie sighed. 'Now I won't have you talk that
way! Look, he's put his hands over his ears!
I think he wants some peace and quiet, it will
do him the world of good!' She sighed again.
'Well, I'm wide-awake now. Let's make some coffee,
nice and strong. Then I want to know
everything!
And I
mean everything!'
'What's this woman? The Spanish bloody Inquis-bleeding-ition?
Hang on. First I'll wake Karen so she can mop
up all the vomit before it sets.'
***
***
***
It was Friday. It was the morning after.
It was horrendous. Waking up heralded an unpleasantness
that transcended a mere hangover. He lay in
bed until four in the afternoon. Finally he
mustered the strength to change into fresh clothes.
The chore was tortured. He was unable to
purge the foul taste on the back of his palate
nor the stench in his sinuses. His muscles ached
remorselessly. His head thumped.
Gingerly he edged his way downstairs. The
lounge was empty. There was a noise outside
the front door. From that booming voice he
deduced Greg was about to make an entrance.
Seconds later the front door swung open. Its
angular momentum was dissipated into the wall
and an abrupt banging noise was generated.
This was enough to make Howard wince deeply
and clutch his pounding head. Greg appeared
in the lounge.
'Howie! Man, you look like something that was
embalmed three thousand years ago.'
'Gosh! I'd put the figure more like four thousand,'
said Gallie, who followed Greg in from the hall.
'Aspirin.
Aspirin,' whimpered Howard.
'Do you have a headache then huh?' enquired
Gallie cheerfully yet consolingly.
'Blinding.'
'Ahhh, poor thing! Just as well you chucked
up last night, or you'd be much worse than you
are. There's no need to worry about your sick
all over the hall carpet, by the way. I've dabbed
most of it up now. I can still
smell
it though! One aspirin or two?'
'One...
hundred,' said Howard, 'Give me
the whole box. I desire to overdose.'
'I'll bleeding
overdose you, you fucking
idiot!' interjected Greg. 'I was
well in
with a ball-busting barmaid last night and
what
happens? You go and bleeding blow it!'
'Sorry,' ventured Howard. His hoarse voice brimmed
with apologetic regret born of the aspiration
for diplomacy. 'I'm sorry I blew your chance
with the barmaid.'
'Oh fuck it!' said Greg, shrugging. 'Sometimes
a dick in hand is better than in the bush.'
Greg's conciliatory gesture was not a total
relief to Howard's sense of miserable awkwardness.
The night at Cleopatra's had been a dismal failure.
Rather than vanquishing his virginity and celebrating
the event with boastful narratives, here he
was, as virginal as the day he was born and
having wrecked his big night out with Greg.
He feared Greg, Gallie and Karen now considered
him a pathetic loser. He must reverse this aura
of failure. He must go out there and get laid
and he must do it fast!
Gallie returned from the kitchen. 'Maybe you
had a bad pint. Here!' she handed Howard a
glass containing a misty liquid. 'Greg, make
the tea, darling, there's a good chap.'
Greg grunted, stomped moodily out of the room
and slammed about in the kitchen.
'Poor thing! Are you taking any medication,
any drugs the doctor prescribed? That might
have a lot to do with why you feel so rotten,'
said Gallie.
He replied in the negative. Gallie looked genuinely
concerned. Even in his state of dire discomfort
she could reach through his misery and cheer
his soul. He wished he had the ability to affect
people like she did him. How he would abuse
that power!
She questioned him about the night before, about
Greg's antics, Sue and Cleopatra's nightclub.
Howard felt ashamed to be with her after the
debacle of the night before. He wanted her companionship
only once he had proved himself worthy of her
attentions.
'Well, I'm going back to bed,' he groaned. 'With
any luck, sleep will give me the energy to die.'
Greg kicked the lounge door. He bore three mugs
of tea.
'Be sure to warn us first,' said he. 'I'll hire
a camcorder and film your messy death throws,
so afterwards we can all have a bloody good
laugh!'
'Your thoughtfulness is most touching!' said
Howard, placing his hand to his heart in mock
gratitude.
'I agree.'
'You should be a Samaritan.
Samaritan Greg!'
'Yeah. I'd be
great at that. The buggers
would soon stop topping 'emselves with Uncle
Greg to chat to. Many a woman has come up to
me and said, "
Greg, Greg my love, I
would not be here now if I hadn't met you.
Your sheer good looks, sex appeal and winning
charm have made me want to live. How'll I ever
be able to thank you?"'
'Ohhhh yeah?' smiled Gallie, 'then why do I
keep reaching for the cyanide every time I hear
one of your tall stories?'
'You don't believe me do you darling?' bemoaned
Greg. 'I am a saint! No one appreciates my
bleeding sacrifices in the name of man and mankind.
And woman. And womankind. And dogs. And dogkind.
And mice. And micekind. And cats. No!
Not
cats. The cats can piss off to Hell, assuming
Satan would put up with the horrible little
bastards!'
 | | | | |
| From: |
MadPole | Subject: | 2001-05-19 16:31:17 |
| | | | |
| From: |
isolani | Subject: | 2001-05-20 13:53:06 |
| | | | |
| From: |
Knoeier | Subject: | 2001-05-23 05:37:16 |
| | | | |
| From: |
Knoeier | Subject: | 2001-05-23 05:38:02 |
| | | | |
| From: |
Jerry | Subject: | 2001-05-25 19:24:58 |
| | | | |
| From: |
iso | Subject: | 2001-05-25 23:00:19 |
| | | | |
| From: |
Knoeier | Subject: | 2001-05-26 09:40:08 |
| | | | |
| From: |
Greg | Subject: | 2001-05-26 12:11:09 |
| | | | |
| From: |
Madpole | Subject: | 2001-05-28 13:11:18 |
| | | | |
| From: |
Madpole | Subject: | 2001-05-28 13:14:11 |
| | | | |
| From: |
Madpole | Subject: | 2001-05-28 13:15:35 |
| | | | |
| From: |
Madpole | Subject: | 2001-05-28 13:17:01 |
| | | | |
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