Some shit nights out

This one takes me back to my early blogging days…

Basically I recently decided on behaving like a student despite being more or less estranged from student lands, and attended nights such as Sports Night and most recently- FAB. I  had spent the past couple of days at a University trip to Bill Wordsworth’s cottage in Cumbria which consisted mostly of looking at old sheets of paper as if they were particularly interesting, when in fact they were genuinely just old sheets of paper. When I returned to my flat it turned out my friend- the loose cannon- we shall refer to him as- had reserved me a ticket to the guild Halloween night, to my joy. I quickly prepared my cape (which I rarely get the opportunity to wear) and smudged my face with yellow and black so as to appear a bit like a jaundiced skeleton. I ended up looking a bit more like a confused mess. But hey, it was Halloween and an effort must be made.

I had to go to where my friends were ‘preing’. I was constrained in terms of time so I jogged down Bristol road past all the evil fried chicken shacks whilst feeling very embarrassed about my appearance. A robust bouncer stood outside UV jestingly attempted to trip me up but I was responsive enough to avoid this and carried on running towards my destination almost ambivalently.

I got to the house, met my retinue for the night and drank a bit of cheap poison from a plastic bottle as is the student way. A load of girls were posing for photos on the stairs in witch costumes and that kind of thing was happening a lot. Lads all dressed in ludicrous costumes revealing their muscles and creeping around the periphery. We soon left the house and began walking to the Guild for our big night out. It became immediately apparent that on this walk there were dull people everywhere. Being rambunctious and laughing at things which obviously didn’t contain so much as what any sentient creature would perceive as a scintilla of comedy within them. It’s very sobering. A few of these people slipped over on the muddy bank like lemmings and dirtied themselves all over. Some of these muddy drunkards reacted with melodrama and burst into tears, others shrugged it off, possibly not even noticing that it even took place.

The thing about the students who go to these events is, they always wear the same clothes regardless of the dress code of the event. American football jerseys. Animal onesies. Banana costumes. Cheer-leading outfits. Tutus. Always shit like that. Thought and imagination rarely come into it, they just slap on whatever costume they can get their hands on and then feel a little bit more wacky about themselves for wearing it. (I wouldn’t be surprised if they had an extremely well thought through costume swapping rotor in the form of a spreadsheet on Google Drive, although it is much more probable that the costume swapping is systematically coordinated on a private Facebook group, semi ironically named ‘FAB LADS!!!’). As I was watching some of these people staggering towards the union like they do, girls gossiping, lads being all loud and stuff a realisation hit me. I realised that they are all harbouring the subconscious belief that they are on American Pie. and goddammit I nailed it with that observation…

I’ll return to this night’s narrative shortly but I wanted to tell the tale of a more recent event in which I went to sports night dressed as an Ent A.K.A I wore a black bin bag with asymmetrical holes for arms sparsely covered in a combination of various leaves collected from a local grave yard. I sometimes tend to get into extremely drunken states, not by a desire to dissolve into an inebriated mist due to my actual life being unbearable (although I may have done this a fair amount in the past) but due to a lazy miscalculation of alcohol units. My eyes are bigger than my mouth e.t.c. So I ended up at a party full of students and it was the most studenty ‘pre-drinks’ I had ever been to, id est: it was the dullest place I had ever been to. This conclusion is easily reached, one has only to look at the attire of the party goers, who were obviously wearing the same costumes that they were to wear for the Halloween FAB of the following weekend. Mine and my loose cannon house mate who shall remain anonymous miscalculated half a bottle of vodka each before this, and somehow ended up very drunk when we got to this event.

I hate alcohol, I hate drinking and I hate being drunk so I don’t understand how this happened. I end up at a house party with a plastic cup full of lukewarm vodka and lemonade, and I swallow it back with a cowering face of contempt and whilst doing this I’m not thinking “Well this is fun”, I’m thinking; “Oh, this again. This hurts my insides. Is there a purpose in this? God I question myself sometimes”. Drinking is all well and good in the pub or at the footy or at poetry events or at the bar on holiday or at weddings or on a uni trip to Grasmere or after the rugger or on a boat down the canal or at the airport or on the train and stuff but if you plan to do it for an entire night you’re not going to enjoy yourself in the later hours- you will be absent. Alcohol is also very moreish so one will always eventually be fucked from continuous consumption unless one is strong willed enough to limit their intake. I have only few memories of this sports night, all of which occurred as a result of extreme boredom and drunkenness.

Basically some dull guy (as most of the attendants to this godforsaken place were) approached us in a sumo costume [which him or one of his close friends almost certainly wore to FAB the other night] expecting us to find his costume funny, so I gave him a gentle side kick to negate his expectation. He then expressed his dissatisfaction and left the scene, as a brooding man dressed in a cheap sumo outfit.

I also tried to get off with my best friend and then vociferously (and hopefully ironically) challenged him for refusing to get with me several times.

And I lost my wallet in unknown circumstances and I broke my phone after having it repaired only one day earlier (for the second time) costing 80 Sri Lankan rupees. I’ve now spent £160 on repairing it, and I’m guaranteed that one of these phone repair sharks, knowing how stupid I am, have removed several of its parts, because it barely even functions as a phone now, despite professing to be one of the market’s premium smart phones.

“This is no good, this is really isn’t any good is it James?” I thought to myself as I arrived late to my seminar in a football shirt and swimming trunks, equipped with a crumpled up piece of paper with humous on it constituting my scheduled presentation on the role of dialect in Caribbean poetry of the 20th Century.

“It really isn’t any fucking good at all” I had a shit night, and lost much from it. Luckily everything in my wallet could be replaced for only a twenty. I’m very good at dealing with losses like this now because I am completely desensitised to them after having incurred costs well over £7000 due to horrific blunders since arriving at University in 2013.

Anyway now that’s out of the way we can go back to this FAB night I was talking about. After this recent terror at sports night I was resolved not to get this drunk again and got to FAB in a perfectly acceptable condition. I wandered around the club for a bit with my slightly drunker retinue and smoked a couple of cigarettes, again a result of the extreme boredom that manifests itself in these catastrophically dull events.

The thing that annoys me most about these dull pandaemoniums is the music. Several times in my life I have firmly reached the conclusion: “If you don’t go for the music, what are you going for?”. The music is everything surely? Right? But it certainly isn’t at student nights

A) because they are organised by dull people, for dull people with equally dull music tastes

B) because of their insurmountable union with ethanol. Ethanol is a numbing drug that can make songs by Kesha(![?]) enjoyable, inducing students to dance ironically and believe that they have somehow become the nucleus of ‘wackiness’. Like this girl for example, who I always seem to see at these events, and examine as if she were an experiment in human nature. 

I wasn’t drunk this time and I inevitably lost my loose cannon somewhere deep within the heart of the abyss. Another reason why I dislike these nights so strongly is that I am 100% likely to end up completely on my own, wandering around the student union seeking my brethren and finding no one but dubious acquaintances of whom I share a mutual apathy but pretend as if we don’t sometimes, for the purposes of convenience. Talking to these people for me is most often a waste of time, and potentially hazardous.

Anyway what a shit way to spend a Saturday night. So I was wandering around like a disappointed meerkat for a while, thinking right I’ll go home and compile a string of my recent reflections on because after all, what the hell else can be achieved during my agonising solitary experience of the abyss? It came to me- maybe I shouldn’t even write about topics, because it’s really hard. I’ve got 16 drafts on here which I know I’m never going to publish, some of which I have spent hours on (extremely deep and enlightening blog about pride coming soon; watch this space). Maybe I should just write about kitschy slobber? Maybe kitschy slobber is all I am destined for on my short tenure on our collapsing planet full of dull people? Hopefully not.

So I wandered no more and left the place, with the ideas in this piece in orbit around my brain. I wandered past Old Joe and encountered a Christian of who’s ideas I had heard at a University debate about the worth of Christianity in modern society. He was on the panel and talked abstrusely about a ward full of people with dementia. I failed to understand this at the time, so I asked him about it again on this occasion and he explained it and I failed to understand it again. He was a good guy, very Jesus-based in his ideas. Which is cool, I often try and be like Jesus but usually find that it’s much easier to feel alienated from dull people than love them unconditionally (which believe me doesn’t get you anywhere). I asked him if judging by his affinity with Christian benevolence and tolerance that he might see the value of throwing the Old Testament in the trash like it were a rotten pumpkin- that he might dismiss it as a barbarous and worthless piece of literature. He found a way to disagree with this remark and placed some kind of value in this book, somehow. The conversation was conducted in an extremely gregarious fashion, the argument was completely respectful and I believe that we both managed to take something from each other’s ideas, which is extremely refreshing for me because too often arguments about these things turn nasty due to the sordid interventions of pride, emotion and stupidity. Why do I love talking about theology so much? I really don’t know. But anyway after a slightly prolonged conversation here, I left him with a gracious handshake, he iterated that it was nice speaking to me and we went our separate ways, two very separate minds.

20 odd minutes and many conversations with staggering pedestrians later I was back at my flat recording my thoughts and experiences for you on the loose cannon’s Mac-book. Definitely all the better for doing it but Kitschy slobber or FAB journalism won’t be something I persist with in the future hopefully.  Hope you enjoyed my absurd reality as much as I enjoyed projecting it to you. You might be thinking, why go if you look upon it with so much scorn? I ask myself the same question, and after much deliberation, I fail to find a sufficient answer and come to the conclusion that my shit nights out are all but over. There will be no more. .. probably

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s