Sunday, May 29, 2005
My kingdom for a shish
Blogging drunk? I never thought I'd see the day.
I've just been dragged by my unwashed hair into Town by the Brief. It was very bestial. Herds hiding predators, posing and sharking, bluster and big hand-gestures. I could deconstruct it to pieces because although I'm not so excruciatingly middle-clarse that I can't blend in and even get into it, I'm still very much one step out of the Saturday-night seethe. But bugger it.
We played pool and the Brief who was raised on pool tried to give me helpful tips, which was terrifically embarrassing when there was this horde of swaggering men waiting and shouting and grinning and waving by the table. I needed to protect myself. You know that zap of Girls-Aloud-induced inadequacy? It's worse when there's this menagerie strutting up and down in strappy shoes. You can't help but play up to it, compete, put on some new skin. You can't get away from that biological imperative, and that's what Saturday Night is, a big puddle of cells all out for reproduction.
Eek, deja vu. How irksome. Which reminds me, I had a naked dream last night. But I wasn't especially embarrassed. I was in a delicatessen, except I was dropping off olives rather than picking them up. I thought everyone else was being a bit backward in still having clothes. Then there was a huge multiple-car accident and I went to phone for help amongst the most crushingly unbothered people in existence, and I fell through the splintery rotten boards and dangled over the sea with one hand on some twisted wrought-iron fencing and said "help me" very politely, but no one did. Bastards.
So in the midst of drink and Sean Paul and Ice Cube and Amerie I left the Brief (or rather she left me) talking to some model and there was a bricklayer who was heartbreakingly nice and thought I was "a bit mad, but lovely". And I enjoyed frightening the hell out of a cocky 18-year-old who thought I was 20. He had great hair and silly friends who I seemed to collect - they stole my drink, I stole theirs, we wound each other up. It was gratifying in the same sort of stupid way as booze is to feel so absolutely Too Much for someone.
I read something the other day about this doctor - female - whose theory is that the female orgasm is just an evolutionary throwback which is going to eventually die out. I wonder if the same applies to the things that supposedly make you eligible, like gobbling intelligence and mental stability. I mean, these are the things that are supposed to make you attractive. Not being a raving fuck-up, even a socially-functioning one, must equate to some kind of gold seal of approval, like the certificates of excellence that the geishas get in 'My Uncle Oswald' (if you're expecting a link there then, mwwahuhruahar, you're having a larf. Later, people). But I'm not sure it's worth all that much. Bit like my degree. Where is it going to get me? I might not ever use it again.
That's very silly of me, and a rubbish analogy of which I am ashamed. I suppose I'm just wishing that tonight could be my life, and that I could be one of the birds and pick from the boys who smell of Hugo Boss. It would be So Much Simpler, but it is not to be, cherie.
Oh Christ, I'm full of vodka and various ghastly mixers, and I want some chips. Why can I not have chips? Why am I denied carbohydrate? Sulk. All this and an empty bed and continuing sense of blank. And I'm going to have to go and puke before I can sleep. Nuts.
On the way home, a modified Pug in an unwise position by the side of the road, a blonde and a brunette poking into the driver's window, bare legs and barely-clad arses sticking out. "Ge' ou', Ma'ee, and gimme fuckin' sa'isfaction."
I've just been dragged by my unwashed hair into Town by the Brief. It was very bestial. Herds hiding predators, posing and sharking, bluster and big hand-gestures. I could deconstruct it to pieces because although I'm not so excruciatingly middle-clarse that I can't blend in and even get into it, I'm still very much one step out of the Saturday-night seethe. But bugger it.
We played pool and the Brief who was raised on pool tried to give me helpful tips, which was terrifically embarrassing when there was this horde of swaggering men waiting and shouting and grinning and waving by the table. I needed to protect myself. You know that zap of Girls-Aloud-induced inadequacy? It's worse when there's this menagerie strutting up and down in strappy shoes. You can't help but play up to it, compete, put on some new skin. You can't get away from that biological imperative, and that's what Saturday Night is, a big puddle of cells all out for reproduction.
Eek, deja vu. How irksome. Which reminds me, I had a naked dream last night. But I wasn't especially embarrassed. I was in a delicatessen, except I was dropping off olives rather than picking them up. I thought everyone else was being a bit backward in still having clothes. Then there was a huge multiple-car accident and I went to phone for help amongst the most crushingly unbothered people in existence, and I fell through the splintery rotten boards and dangled over the sea with one hand on some twisted wrought-iron fencing and said "help me" very politely, but no one did. Bastards.
So in the midst of drink and Sean Paul and Ice Cube and Amerie I left the Brief (or rather she left me) talking to some model and there was a bricklayer who was heartbreakingly nice and thought I was "a bit mad, but lovely". And I enjoyed frightening the hell out of a cocky 18-year-old who thought I was 20. He had great hair and silly friends who I seemed to collect - they stole my drink, I stole theirs, we wound each other up. It was gratifying in the same sort of stupid way as booze is to feel so absolutely Too Much for someone.
I read something the other day about this doctor - female - whose theory is that the female orgasm is just an evolutionary throwback which is going to eventually die out. I wonder if the same applies to the things that supposedly make you eligible, like gobbling intelligence and mental stability. I mean, these are the things that are supposed to make you attractive. Not being a raving fuck-up, even a socially-functioning one, must equate to some kind of gold seal of approval, like the certificates of excellence that the geishas get in 'My Uncle Oswald' (if you're expecting a link there then, mwwahuhruahar, you're having a larf. Later, people). But I'm not sure it's worth all that much. Bit like my degree. Where is it going to get me? I might not ever use it again.
That's very silly of me, and a rubbish analogy of which I am ashamed. I suppose I'm just wishing that tonight could be my life, and that I could be one of the birds and pick from the boys who smell of Hugo Boss. It would be So Much Simpler, but it is not to be, cherie.
Oh Christ, I'm full of vodka and various ghastly mixers, and I want some chips. Why can I not have chips? Why am I denied carbohydrate? Sulk. All this and an empty bed and continuing sense of blank. And I'm going to have to go and puke before I can sleep. Nuts.
On the way home, a modified Pug in an unwise position by the side of the road, a blonde and a brunette poking into the driver's window, bare legs and barely-clad arses sticking out. "Ge' ou', Ma'ee, and gimme fuckin' sa'isfaction."
