Sunday, 29 March 2009

Red Hot Warriors

Saturday was a Pearl Jam/ Red Hot Chilli Peppers tribute band night at a club called Big Bang.

It wasn’t too far as the crow flies, from my house so I took the Tube in good faith and met up with my pals (who, being female were their usual 25 minutes late) and after circumnavigating the obstructive motorway flyover that had no clear path to the venue (which we could see from the other side of the street) we paid 5 Euros, had a few pints of Elephant beer (9% ABV) and sat at a table.

Two minutes after we’d sat down some bloke walks up and says to one of my friends in Italian that the table is reserved.

I get his attention and then point out that there was nothing to say that and 3 other people buggered off literally 5 seconds before we sat down.

He shows us a “reserved” sticker in his paw, and says that the table is definitely for him and his mates.

I ask why the sticker wasn’t on the table BEFORE we sat down.

He replies that his friends moved to another table but now want this one back. He adds that he is a lawyer for one of the bands.

I tell him to fuck off and to go and get someone who actually works in the venue to tell us to move.

He says he doesn’t understand.

I repeat it in both Italian and English.

Then I see my two pals getting up and moving away, like the tide going out at Blackpool pier. Realising that further argument is useless unless I want to sit on my own I glare at him and get up too.

“Sorry” he says.

“I’m fucking not, piss off”.

Fuming I ask one of the girls why she moved and she replies “I’m having a good night I don’t want it spoiled over an argument over a table”.

I point out that if you don’t stick up to piss takers and bullies they just get worse. She starts to get upset and accuses me of yelling at her. I apologise and feel a bit guilty.

Still, concert was good even though the Chilli Peppers band singer was a little bald bloke who looked nothing like Anthony.

Some of the geekiest blokes imaginable kept trying to chat my friends up. Including one guy who didn’t take the hint when one of them walked away while he was talking to her. He later put on his coat and asked me to tell her just how “lovely” she is and how much he adores “tall, blonde ladies”.

Staggering outside at 3am, with too many Elephant ales in my guts and we see the same guy that told us to move off the table. I’m very drunk and slightly offended that he tries to spark up a conversation.

“Are you that cunt who told us to move?”

One of my friends snaps “LANCE!” and pulls my sleeve, looking cross as she leads me to the bus stop while I mumble “but that’s what he is!”.

We got on the wrong night bus and after about 45 minutes on a cold, rattling coach we ended up in some housing estate in the stix, not knowing where the hell we were. The driver pulled over for a fag and I asked him what time we would be arriving at Termini Station. He tuts and replies “not for another hour” as this is the no.2 bus going in the OPPOSITE direction to the one we needed but luckily on a circuitous route.

One of my friends fell asleep while the other pursed her lips and sulked the rest of the journey and I tried to sleep with my head against the window, and cold air wafting in.

Walking one of my pals home, we saw a photo booth (they have them in the street here) in plain view of Termini station. The curtain was drawn and you could see some bloke’s bare legs and his trousers round his ankles with some woman in a little red dress on her knees in front of him. Luckily for my churning stomach, her head and his knob were obscured by the curtain.

It was 6am before I got to bed and I fell onto my pit feeling extremely sorry for myself, waking up at 2pm and spending all day Sunday (or what was left of it), moping about the house.

Today my manuscript was accepted for a “full reading” by a UK publisher. Floated on air because of this for about 2 hours. Hopefully this means I can get the book out this year.

Something I’ve always had a problem with is aggression. That is, my ability to handle it or deal with it without becoming agitated or upset. In my dreams for the past 20 or so years, whenever I picked up a gun it would either fail to fire or become a broken toy. You don’t need a dream analyst to tell you the impotency implications of that particular imagery. Recently I had a dream where the gun didn’t break or become a toy but actually fired. Problem was it was a BB gun firing plastic pellets. Still, onwards and upwards. Maybe that Krav Maga class I saw advertised will help.

Last night I attended a Bronx Warriors dinner with the two female twins who turned out to be as enthusiastic in their fandom as me (although one difference is that I don’t want to fuck the lead actor). Lots of homemade Italian pasta bake and red wine and both movies one after the other on a big, fuck off, flat screen TV. I got absolutely wankered (it was the bottle of Disarono and the invitation to “help myself” that did it) and ended up snogging one of the girls on the balcony while having a fag (UK definition). My attempts to get her top off were a no go though. Smoked far too many ciggies and fell into bed at 5am, waking up today feeling like George W Bush was reading “My Pet Goat” in my head.

Have found out that my schools are both shut for Easter break, meaning that I will have another 2 week month with no pay. Still, lots of time to catch up on seeing the sights of Rome and maybe even a stroll around the majestic wonders of the Vatican.

Time will tell.

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