A very busy weekend socially on this occasion, which is almost certainly a result of Amanda's absence. Give a choice between sitting indoors by myself watching DVDs and reading books or going out and having some sort of human interaction, the latter was always going to be the most sensible choice. I'm quite adept at long periods of lonesome contemplation, but even I have to go out and do a great big royal wave to the world now and then.

Friday night saw me out drinking with a few friends in a number of Soho bars. Soho revealed its pomposity and sleaziness in spades. At first I couldn't find my way to the first bar we were planning to meet in, and wandered aimlessly up and down a rain soaked backstreet which smelt vaguely of sewage. A man lingering around a doorway wearing a hat asked me what exactly I was looking for, the dark look of conspiracy about his eyes. He couldn't have looked more cliched if he tried. "I'm trying to find Bar Amber", I replied confidently. To his credit, he did point me in the right direction, and also didn't offer me a man or lady for the night as he did so. Clearly Soho has a more polite, helpful class of Pimp these days.

We try out several bars that evening, and end up in some dank grey basement supping wine. Rather unfortunately, a companion of mine places his rucksack rather precariously on a shelf. It falls within a minute or two, collapsing on to a neighbouring bottle of red wine that two ladies are enjoying, spilling on the table and on to one of their laps. My friend immediately approaches them to make his apologies and offer to buy them another drink.

"You," splutters the woman, "have ruined my jeans! What are you going to do about that?"
"Well, I'm really sorry, but I'll get you another drink", he replies.
"But what about my jeans? I'm supposed to be moving on from here tonight," she asks.
"I don't know about that," he says, "I can't really get you any new jeans right now. But look, I'm really sorry, I will get you another drink".
He's getting genuinely flustered and embarrassed at this point, and the more flustered he gets, the more steely and determined her eyes get.

Whilst he's away at the bar, she continues her rant loud enough for me to hear.
"Sorry," she says in the tones of a high madam, "doesn't cut it in this world. Sorry isn't good enough. It's all very well being sorry, but what does it get everyone else? It's just the same at work, they're always sorry, always sorry... Gemma, for instance, that bitch who messes everything up, blah blah blah blah blah..."
Her whine goes on and on and on, listing all the people who have told her sorry where she thinks affirmative action would have been a better deal (she sounds like a lawyer, actually) and she continues to lecture my friend on his clumsiness when he returns with more wine. In the end I turn to my friend's partner, hold up my glass of white wine and say "Shall I tip this over her as well? White wine does remove red wine stains, after all". She laughs at me as if I'm joking, but in my slightly tipsy state I'm seriously considering it.

A sober voice in my head tells me "Dave, you've had too much to drink. If you throw more wine over her, that would be an enormously obnoxious way to behave, and would leave your friends in an even more awkward position. Just don't do it".
My drunken voice replies: "Nah, stuff that! She's a whiny posh bint, and she's deliberately trying to milk an embarrassing situation for sport. A typical head girl bully! Turn the embarrassment away from your good friend and on to yourself - you're too drunk to care anyway. Besides which, she sounds like she needs a bloody good soaking. At worst you'll get a slap and then you'll be thrown out, and you're going soon anyway".

In the end, of course, my sober voice won. It mostly does. After years of mishaps, I've managed to train myself to think that any questionable idea I have whilst drunk is probably an awful one. Sometimes I wake up the next morning and thank my common sense for working well under pressure. On this occasion, however, for some reason I wake up and think "I really wish I had done that, actually".

And yes, I know, red wine stains are a bastard to get out, and having wine spilt on you when you're out and trying to look your best is really not a pleasing event. Sometimes it just so happens that an accident befalls somebody whose abrasive personality reveals that they truly deserved it, though, and it becomes difficult to care.

Much better company was enjoyed at the anti-folk festival at the 12 Bar in Denmark Street the following evening, where a wide variety of bands of that musical hue played. ( Read more... )