Its funny the small details that you remember about certain situations. Major events smudged by bad memory, but you can remember what your were wearing, or similar - if the captain of the Titanic were here today he might say, "I say, I don't recall much about the ship going doing but I do remember Mrs Flossington-Whyte-Hyde was wearing a lovely dress. Showed her cleavage off a treat....."
When I was about 18 years old I went to a local nightclub (I don't remember its name, but that's academic as its a car park now) with some friends of mine - Clive, who'd recently moved back from Hong Kong with his mum, Nerun, a half Indian half Scottish lad who grew up in North Wales, Mauritius and was living with his Grandfather at the time. I've no idea what has happened to these people now. The nightclub its self seemed to be one of those places that had grand ideas but was cheaply executed and in the long run, undone by its rough and ready clientele - people who streamed in from the surround streets and valleys looking to spend there wages/dole cheques, get laid, have a fight and generally, get pissed.
My friends and I were no different.
I was working as a "chain boy" (an old term to describe what amounted to being a dogs body - fetch that, make this cup of tea, go to the chip-shop, hold this tape measure, got stand over there etc.....) on a site, making a minuscule contribution to a bridge that was being built in Cardiff. I was paid on a Thursday and usually by Friday my hard earned cash was in the safe keeping of the barmen and women of Bridgend town centre. I reasoned that a shower would wash the dust and crap from my body, but a nice cold pint was the only way to wash it all from my mouth and throat. The first pint of the night was always the very best - the others dulled as the alcohol took hold. I also smoked at the time, so there was always a battered pack of Marlboros to hand too.
That particular night, we rolled into the nightclub, pleasantly mullered and looking for girls. My two friends never had that much of a problem getting laid - Nerun was the product of a fairly exotic mix and had the looks to match, Clive was a muscular type with boyish good looks. Me? I had wild auburn hair and a pair of nerdy glasses to fighten the chicks away.
So, there we sat, drinking our pints, smoking our ciggies and cruising the joint with our eyes. Two girls came over and sat next to Nerun. One was fat with long hair, dressed in black and looking like the wicked witch of the west, minus the pointy nose and packing a few more pounds. The other girl, also wearing black and considerably slimmer sported a curly perm and wore glasses. Her eyes, however, seemed to act independently of each other.
Nerun engaged them both in conversation with the usual patter that's universal in these places - Whats your name, where are you from and would you like a dance? All this conducted at a shout, having to repeat just about everything over the loud eighties dance music.
My glass empty, I went to the bar and got another pint. I remember this pint extremely well as, arguably, what happened next changed my life beyond all recognition. By the time I'd got half way down this particular pint, my fate was sealed.
When I was about 18 years old I went to a local nightclub (I don't remember its name, but that's academic as its a car park now) with some friends of mine - Clive, who'd recently moved back from Hong Kong with his mum, Nerun, a half Indian half Scottish lad who grew up in North Wales, Mauritius and was living with his Grandfather at the time. I've no idea what has happened to these people now. The nightclub its self seemed to be one of those places that had grand ideas but was cheaply executed and in the long run, undone by its rough and ready clientele - people who streamed in from the surround streets and valleys looking to spend there wages/dole cheques, get laid, have a fight and generally, get pissed.
My friends and I were no different.
I was working as a "chain boy" (an old term to describe what amounted to being a dogs body - fetch that, make this cup of tea, go to the chip-shop, hold this tape measure, got stand over there etc.....) on a site, making a minuscule contribution to a bridge that was being built in Cardiff. I was paid on a Thursday and usually by Friday my hard earned cash was in the safe keeping of the barmen and women of Bridgend town centre. I reasoned that a shower would wash the dust and crap from my body, but a nice cold pint was the only way to wash it all from my mouth and throat. The first pint of the night was always the very best - the others dulled as the alcohol took hold. I also smoked at the time, so there was always a battered pack of Marlboros to hand too.
That particular night, we rolled into the nightclub, pleasantly mullered and looking for girls. My two friends never had that much of a problem getting laid - Nerun was the product of a fairly exotic mix and had the looks to match, Clive was a muscular type with boyish good looks. Me? I had wild auburn hair and a pair of nerdy glasses to fighten the chicks away.
So, there we sat, drinking our pints, smoking our ciggies and cruising the joint with our eyes. Two girls came over and sat next to Nerun. One was fat with long hair, dressed in black and looking like the wicked witch of the west, minus the pointy nose and packing a few more pounds. The other girl, also wearing black and considerably slimmer sported a curly perm and wore glasses. Her eyes, however, seemed to act independently of each other.
Nerun engaged them both in conversation with the usual patter that's universal in these places - Whats your name, where are you from and would you like a dance? All this conducted at a shout, having to repeat just about everything over the loud eighties dance music.
My glass empty, I went to the bar and got another pint. I remember this pint extremely well as, arguably, what happened next changed my life beyond all recognition. By the time I'd got half way down this particular pint, my fate was sealed.
Ooooh, how dramatic!
I wandered back to my friends - Clive had disappeared and Nerun was now sat between Wicked-witch and Googly-eyes. Having not much of a choice, I sat next to Googly-eyes. We talked, more out of embarrassment and something to do, than anything else. Now, I don't recall anything about the conversation but I do remember the multi-colour disco lights reflecting off the condensation that had formed on my cold pint, I remember that it was Stella Artois and that it was going down very well.
Half way down said pint, Googly-eyes asked me for a dance. Me. For a dance. I had two left feet and neither of them had a clue about dancing. What the hell, so I said yes and the dye was set. Within the hour, we were snogging in the back of a taxi and going back to her house.
Something inside my life had changed. Barely perceptible at the time but it now seems that I had abandoned free will, I thought at the time that I had fallen in love with this frizzy haired girl with the wandering eyes and the fat friend (turns out it was her sister, which in hind sight is never a good sign). By the end of that summer night, I had embarked on a path that would lead to parent hood, a suicide attempt and generally unhappiness on a scale that I haven't experienced since.
And the strange thing is this, I could've stopped at any time. Could've ended it and said this is not for me. But I didn't. The strange thing is this - if I had the chance to do it all again would I change anything? Simple answer? Probably not. Who's to say that I had to go through that to get to where I ended up next? Someone told me that God allowed suffering so that you could find your way to him, or something like that. Following that logic I had to go through what I did to find my way to....er.....me?
I wandered back to my friends - Clive had disappeared and Nerun was now sat between Wicked-witch and Googly-eyes. Having not much of a choice, I sat next to Googly-eyes. We talked, more out of embarrassment and something to do, than anything else. Now, I don't recall anything about the conversation but I do remember the multi-colour disco lights reflecting off the condensation that had formed on my cold pint, I remember that it was Stella Artois and that it was going down very well.
Half way down said pint, Googly-eyes asked me for a dance. Me. For a dance. I had two left feet and neither of them had a clue about dancing. What the hell, so I said yes and the dye was set. Within the hour, we were snogging in the back of a taxi and going back to her house.
Something inside my life had changed. Barely perceptible at the time but it now seems that I had abandoned free will, I thought at the time that I had fallen in love with this frizzy haired girl with the wandering eyes and the fat friend (turns out it was her sister, which in hind sight is never a good sign). By the end of that summer night, I had embarked on a path that would lead to parent hood, a suicide attempt and generally unhappiness on a scale that I haven't experienced since.
And the strange thing is this, I could've stopped at any time. Could've ended it and said this is not for me. But I didn't. The strange thing is this - if I had the chance to do it all again would I change anything? Simple answer? Probably not. Who's to say that I had to go through that to get to where I ended up next? Someone told me that God allowed suffering so that you could find your way to him, or something like that. Following that logic I had to go through what I did to find my way to....er.....me?
Maybe the simple explanation for my actions is that I was thinking with my dick.
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