social butterfly

Suitable festivities ensued last Saturday night in an 'official' night out in celebration for ole sweet Johnny's 29th birthday.

T'was a frightfully odd night odd, something you should expect once one makes the decision to venture in to the sticky floored sweat house that is Liverpool's infamous Krazy House, and for once I was genuinely looking forward to it. Once more I was accosted by several strangers throughout the night whom decided that they had some salient information that they wished to share with me. Not that I condone this sort of thing, but it begs me to ponder; why do strangers only choose to converse with me?

The first of the night's stranger conversations was partly my own fault. This twenty something woman was sat in the same vicinity as where our 'party' were festering away in the night's first bar: The Kubrick inspired Korova (http://korova-liverpool.com/), without doubt one of the finest bars this fair city has to offer- if you don't mind the gaggles of meffy Russel Brand esque student sorts, complete with scruffy beards and wooly hats, but the place is c-c-c-cool man.

This woman stood up momentarily and from my standing position I glanced over to see if she was leaving or in fact going to the bar etc. Her gaze caught mine and she sat down quickly. I immediately assumed she'd sat down quickly in order to keep her beloved seat, so I leaned over and said "I wasn't going to knick your seat you know". Alas she didn't hear me, and looked uncomfortable. I tried to redeem myself, and leaned over a second time, this time trying to laugh it off, apologising for the confusion and repeating what I'd said seconds earlier. She laughed awkwardly and said she was going to the toilet, but she loved the Suzie and The Banshees song that had just started so she'd decided to wait. Her boyfriend and her then decided to chat to0 me about Suzie and her God damned Banshees and Blondie, eventually offering to move up in order for me to get my sizeable ass on the chair. I declined and politely killed the conversation before it got out of hand, imagining the pair of them wanted to befriend me, take me home asking me to shag her whilst he filmed it on his mobile phone, or the otherway around (cue Homer style shudder).

Some ten minutes later whilst waiting at the bar a young man and young lady (both early twenties) were holding a conversation. Sadly, my head was between the two chatting kids, and as they failed to understand each other they moved their heads closer and closer so that I had to bend backwards to stop them from spitting in my ears. The chap then decided that he'd talk to me asking me if I was here to see any of the bands, which of course I wasn't. I explained away my predicament regarding the birthday felicitations and the pre-arranged shindig at the aforementioned Krazy House. He went on to explain that he was one of the promoters that night and the band were going to be huge. He explained to me that this band comprised of a drummer and a singer/guitar player. I replied "A la The Black Keys?". This was an error, as no doubt it showed too much knowledge of music, as he told me he thought I was going to say The White Stripes.

This costly error of judgment resulted in a very boring conversation about bands. I just stood smiling politely until he mentioned Clap Your Hands and Say Yeah, and which point I proceeded to tell him that I'd seen them the night before (if only he'd mentioned ...And You'll Know Us by The Trail of Dead so I could have a second stab at the joke-see last entry). Unimpressed he told me he'd seen them when they played the tiny Academy venue in Liverpool. I told him I had too (this was a lie). Before I got caught out, I made some ramshackle yarn about a friend of a friend getting me in for free, but we were rather late and only got to see two songs. It worked and there was no follow up questions on the gig. He then proceeded to tell me about some of the band he was friends with. I'd not heard of any of them and smiled inwardly at this braggart's unimpressive boasts. My drinks arrived, he shook my hand and told me his name. I think I told him my name was Ruben or something like that, either way bullshitting strangers has always amused me and is a sure fire way of knowing that the Guinness is having an effect. Perhaps it was the years of lying to women in the numerous bar/pubs and clubs during my formative years in a vain attempt to persuade them I was cool, and/or interesting. (one such occasion I spent an entire night lying about my love for Oasis, stealing my friend Burdy's anecdotes- including having the back of my T-Shirt filmed by The O-Zone, presenter Jane Middlemass stating that "this was the nearest we'll come to meeting the band"- she said she had this on video at home- it came as no surprise that she ignored me the following week)

I collected my drinks and the girl my hapless new friend had been chatting to asked me if I wanted a hand. I declined but thanked her anyway. She said “you’re very well spoken” which I took as a compliment, and proceeded to talk like Charles Hawtrey/Russell Brand for several minutes, remarkably she giggled and laughed throughout. This made me feel ill at ease as she was young and pretty, so I made my escape. She asked me something as I walked away, but couldn't quite make out what she'd said and pretended I hadn't heard her imagining that she was checking out my arse as I returned to my friends.

Upon my return, Jane mockingly referred to me as a "social butterfly", and Lisa proceed to regale her with the many incidents whereupon totals strangers bore the pants off of me with inane chit chat (not literally of course).

After we were all fairly tanked up, we decided to head towards The Krazy House. When we arrived the bouncer said something and I immediately laughed out loud, but the look on his face meant that I'd probably misheard so I turned around quickly and waited to pay.

After paying, Janet looking annoyed with herself, informed me that she'd dropped a pound on the floor, and being the gentleman that I often pretend I'm not, proceeded to retrieve it. This meant crouching down at the exact same point that some emo kid was queuing up, and my head was only centimeters from his groin. I made light of this, so he didn't get the wrong impression, and I hope he understood what I meant, when I said "don't worry I've only got my head in your crotch to help my friend". From then on in, the night became something of a blur to me. I recall my usual feeling of contentment when I looked across the dance floor seeing 50 or so goth/emo/punk girls shaking their booties. Not to mention the few teenage Elvira look a likes, complete with two bald men hiding in a vest type cleavages.

As the night drew on I drank heavily, and proceeded to throw some shapes on the dance floor from Rage against The Machine to The Foo Fighters to The Proclaimers, whilst topless men danced with teenage black mascara-caked young things stripped to their bras (one such bra sporting young rock chick had one of the largest racks I’d ever been up close to before and was wearing a white bra which glowed in the dark- very hard when drunk not to get hypnotized by it shaking their thing to Led Zep’s ‘Rock n’ Roll’ ) trying avoid the hundreds of discarded glass bottles on the dance floor ; it was quintessential Krazy House. I felt a bum ‘bump’ into mine, and turning around to see as to whom had done this discovered it was the emo kid who’s crotch was rather too close to my face. I smiled and slow danced backwards through the crowd and went to the toilets. “It’s like the last days of Rome” I thought.

I discovered that their so-called newly installed toilets don’t have any facilities to wash your hands with, which came as a shock; just two massive urinals. This alarmed me to think that ¾ of the men on the dance floor hadn’t washed their hands. I decided to head back and drink some more and avoid shaking hands with anyone.

These toilets were sacred to me, as the venue was the host to my first snog on Merseyside some 11 years ago. I remember thinking I was going to get lucky so acquired a condom from the machine in these hallowed toilets. I can still recall my infuriation when the damned thing promptly swallowed my pound coin. Luckily, thanks to assistance from a stranger we bashed the thing until a Whiskey Flavored condom popped out. I never used it as a friend of hers was comatose and I helped carry him to a taxi, so instead proceeded to blow it up on my long walk home to my Halls of Residence, and instantly regretted wasting it when I arrived back in my Prison cell like room beered up and horny.

Anyhoo; something weird went down at 1.30am ish as it was rumored that Sweet Johnny had gone home in a huff following a row with his nearest and dearest. Eve-e-o was in floods of tears and surrounded by concerned friends. I shrugged my shoulders and continued to dance with Jon’s brother Sweet Benny and his sister Sweet Janey who also rightly assumed that everything would be “all-l-l rigg-g-ht”.

It wasn’t long before I was fucked and had to take a break. I then spent and estimated hour and a half glued to the big screen TV which was playing Match of the Day –Classic Matches of The Eighties. I was completely engrossed by mustachioed premed stars of yesterday playing it what now looked like Speedos, and on the occasion when cohorts and the like came over to chat, I could hear them but couldn’t take my eyes off the screen.

The night continued, but once things had calmed down and Jon had been found, we decided that a journey home via a kebab shop/pizza shop was in order.

The Pizza shop was as crowded as an establishment like that could be and resembled a mosh pit at a Music Festival. I chatted to Sweet Benny about the poor quality Liverpudlian Pizzas, bragging about the excellence of Harrogate’s best asset; Chico’s Pizza. Sweet Benny told me that Sweet Johnny had informed him that “I was obsessed with this topic”.

Pizza King was the food outlet of choice. We waited patiently until Lisa spotted some rogue scally pushing in and proceeded to inform the rest of the hungry masses, who didn’t take to kindly to this. An argument ensued between an emo chick and this pilled up, skin headed little shit. The take way owners repeatedly asking, fairly timidly for him to stop swearing, but he was having none of it, and they served him quickly to try and get him out of their establishment. After receiving he chips, and continuing his shouting at these poor girls he called the kebab shop workers “bag heads”. This resulted in a cacophonous booing and people telling him to fuck off, and the smallest of the workers removed him, riding on the crest of people power. I was drunk, and continued to boo, and get my phone out and film it.

I scoffed my pizza in record time, whilst Lisa once again decided that she would wait until she got home before unwrapping her chicken kebab. This precious and over protective approach to her food consumption has always caused friction between the two of us, as I see little point in not devouring it immediately as her food is always cold when she gets back, and she always laments her decision drunkenly and often loudly.

Eventually a taxi was located. As we boarded it, I heard a fella shout “Fuck you- you knob head” in my direction. I innocently pointed to myself and asked if he was talking to me. He bounded over to where I was stood:
”What are you looking at?” he eloquently asked me.
“Where you calling me a knob head?” I asked affably.
“Who are you calling a knob head!!?” he screamed.
“No one- sorry, I thought you were talking to me?”
“What’s it got to fucking do with you? I was talking to him (taxi driver)”

Lisa, grabbed me by the collar and dragged me in the taxi and he sped off. I was quickly informed that the taxi had stopped from these two aggressors, and were quickly ejected by the driver. As we drove past them we all vigorously flicked them the ‘vs’ mouthing “wanker” and the like. I could only assume that they’d said something to the driver, who as Lisa retorted was “the only clam person we’ve met since leaving the Krazy House”.

Upon return to the flat, Lisa lied and said her Kebab was still warm and we watched Krypton Factor until 5am, both in awe of on particularly inept contestant called Marjory and how young Gordon Burns looks, with his Alan Partridge regalia.