Sunday, 23 September 2012
Wednesday, 22 August 2012
The Ordeal, Part Three; 3
The Last Crusade; Part Three
Stepping carefully across the hazardous steps to reach the taxi which would take me back to my humble abode was proving difficult.... yet I could see another human attempting to take my taxi! Rushing was not an option so I did the half-jog, where you don't really go much faster you just look like you do. The person in all fairness sent his apologies and I got on the way, the drink took me west....
In the taxi, it just got worse, a fairly reliant fixture of tiredness and a lack of sobriety took me into a trance like state. Within this state I do remember talking utter rubbish to the taxi driver about the world economy and to be honest in the state I was in that probably wasn't the best of ideas. I doubt David Cameron gets hammered before meetings although perhaps he should as I'd solved the worlds banking crisis in a manner of minutes with the help of beer and a 40 year old scouser.
Its only when I'd arrived to my sweet abode, that I paid the taxi man, who was far nicer than the previous two of the night and got out the car.
Staggering and indeed falling over outside of my front door (which hurt quite a lot the next day and meant that I woke up not only in my clothes but in my clothes laced with mud.), I wiggled the key into the door and arrived upstairs.
Placed my keys down and went to bed.
If only....
What actually happened was I, in my stupor had lost my phone and I had decided that it would be appropriate to wake up my flat mate to ask him to borrow his phone as to ring the missing phone.
I knocked quietly on his door. Which is a stupid thing to do to be honest. Why is it when you are trying to wake someone up you are quieter than than you would be normally? Even as a kid I remember waking up my parents in the morning in this manner, knocking quietly on the door as to wake someone up makes about as much sense as adding water to a drowning persons pool. Either way..
Despite the very polite way that he was woken up, my flat mate was not too impressed to find me staggering and lets be honest drooling at his bedroom door, a sight I'm sure young ladies around the world appreciate as well. He stared at me as I explained I needed to borrow his phone as I had misplaced mine.
Ring Ring, no answer, the phone was probably gone forever and ever. Yet I decided that this could not be the case and that I had simply misplaced it outside my house during the fall or the taking out of the keys from my pocket. I wen't out to look and with safety obviously at the forefront of my mind shut the door. I wandered, pretty aimlessly, searching, praying for my phone. It was not too be found. Lets be honest only when you go out drinking do you lose something and then go looking for it outside your house.
After sitting on my front wall contemplating crying, I decided it wasn't worth it so I went back in my house.
Nope.
As I mentioned, I fell over, placed my keys down the only bit I didn't do was the go to bed bit.
I placed my keys down. I shut the door behind me.
This is the worst feeling in the world when drunk, panic spreads from your belly all the way to you spine upward to your rather frazzled brain. I would have to wake flat mate up. Again. And he wouldn't be pleased. Perhaps he'd pick me up and spin me round so I threw up. Its not happened before but who knows. I pressed on the door bell. Jesus it's shrill, who would make a doorbell so aggressive?
Flat mate arrived and he wasn't pleased at all. I mumbled my sordid little apologies which he took rather graciously. And this time I did go to bed, fully clothed and slept forever.
This isn't where the story ends, the ordeal if you will.
Remember the coat that had caused me, Norway and Mack'um to get lost, well that was delivered back to the student union for me to pick up. When I arrived to do so, they passed me a different coat, my coat had got mixed up with another coat that was not mine. The coat had gone and in some ways I'm glad.
What had started as a rather inconspicuous day had led to late presidential elections, disregarding dissertations, monsoons, fake Chinese shelters, elusive cars, getting lost, short cuts that were not short, stoners, people being sick near trees, gates to high to climb, bikes in hallways, u-turns, 1 minute taxis, angry taxi drivers, second taxi, 12 pound vodka, man circle, leering nightclubs, sleepy shots, Adeel's taxi, slippy stairs, third taxi, lost phone, angry flatmate, lost keys, angrier flat mate, bed.
In some respects the lost grey coat is a tribute to the night and the perfect ending to the ordeal. I don't want the coat back, I'd rather have the night....
Stepping carefully across the hazardous steps to reach the taxi which would take me back to my humble abode was proving difficult.... yet I could see another human attempting to take my taxi! Rushing was not an option so I did the half-jog, where you don't really go much faster you just look like you do. The person in all fairness sent his apologies and I got on the way, the drink took me west....
In the taxi, it just got worse, a fairly reliant fixture of tiredness and a lack of sobriety took me into a trance like state. Within this state I do remember talking utter rubbish to the taxi driver about the world economy and to be honest in the state I was in that probably wasn't the best of ideas. I doubt David Cameron gets hammered before meetings although perhaps he should as I'd solved the worlds banking crisis in a manner of minutes with the help of beer and a 40 year old scouser.
Its only when I'd arrived to my sweet abode, that I paid the taxi man, who was far nicer than the previous two of the night and got out the car.
Staggering and indeed falling over outside of my front door (which hurt quite a lot the next day and meant that I woke up not only in my clothes but in my clothes laced with mud.), I wiggled the key into the door and arrived upstairs.
Placed my keys down and went to bed.
If only....
What actually happened was I, in my stupor had lost my phone and I had decided that it would be appropriate to wake up my flat mate to ask him to borrow his phone as to ring the missing phone.
I knocked quietly on his door. Which is a stupid thing to do to be honest. Why is it when you are trying to wake someone up you are quieter than than you would be normally? Even as a kid I remember waking up my parents in the morning in this manner, knocking quietly on the door as to wake someone up makes about as much sense as adding water to a drowning persons pool. Either way..
Despite the very polite way that he was woken up, my flat mate was not too impressed to find me staggering and lets be honest drooling at his bedroom door, a sight I'm sure young ladies around the world appreciate as well. He stared at me as I explained I needed to borrow his phone as I had misplaced mine.
Ring Ring, no answer, the phone was probably gone forever and ever. Yet I decided that this could not be the case and that I had simply misplaced it outside my house during the fall or the taking out of the keys from my pocket. I wen't out to look and with safety obviously at the forefront of my mind shut the door. I wandered, pretty aimlessly, searching, praying for my phone. It was not too be found. Lets be honest only when you go out drinking do you lose something and then go looking for it outside your house.
After sitting on my front wall contemplating crying, I decided it wasn't worth it so I went back in my house.
Nope.
As I mentioned, I fell over, placed my keys down the only bit I didn't do was the go to bed bit.
I placed my keys down. I shut the door behind me.
This is the worst feeling in the world when drunk, panic spreads from your belly all the way to you spine upward to your rather frazzled brain. I would have to wake flat mate up. Again. And he wouldn't be pleased. Perhaps he'd pick me up and spin me round so I threw up. Its not happened before but who knows. I pressed on the door bell. Jesus it's shrill, who would make a doorbell so aggressive?
Flat mate arrived and he wasn't pleased at all. I mumbled my sordid little apologies which he took rather graciously. And this time I did go to bed, fully clothed and slept forever.
This isn't where the story ends, the ordeal if you will.
Remember the coat that had caused me, Norway and Mack'um to get lost, well that was delivered back to the student union for me to pick up. When I arrived to do so, they passed me a different coat, my coat had got mixed up with another coat that was not mine. The coat had gone and in some ways I'm glad.
What had started as a rather inconspicuous day had led to late presidential elections, disregarding dissertations, monsoons, fake Chinese shelters, elusive cars, getting lost, short cuts that were not short, stoners, people being sick near trees, gates to high to climb, bikes in hallways, u-turns, 1 minute taxis, angry taxi drivers, second taxi, 12 pound vodka, man circle, leering nightclubs, sleepy shots, Adeel's taxi, slippy stairs, third taxi, lost phone, angry flatmate, lost keys, angrier flat mate, bed.
In some respects the lost grey coat is a tribute to the night and the perfect ending to the ordeal. I don't want the coat back, I'd rather have the night....
Sunday, 6 May 2012
The Ordeal: Part Three; 2
The Last Crusade: Part 2
We left the expensive perv pit to go to a cheaper place in which gents didn't forget where their hands should and should not go. As we entered this fine establishment, it became quite clear that the night was getting to its last legs. The creeping feeling of sleepiness had set in and was brandishing itself over the alcohol ridden horizon. This, however did not stall me in my quest to destroy my own body, liver first. For some unholy reason I decided it would be a fine idea to by shots. Then some more. Then just a few more.
This had all of a sudden turned into a LMFAO song featuring Lil' Wayne. The shots were toppling, straight into my neck. At first this was not having much of a profound effect but as the inevitable happened and the parting of the pack was upon us, it did. The fresh air acted as the instigator, rushing in and attacking my sobriety levels. We all wandered up the hill as I rang myself a taxi, not an angry black cab for me this time. There was talk of fried chicken based goods, yet my stomach had now begun to turn and I decided against the week old grease filled chickeny goodness. The text message said that the taxi was on its way, good no problems with cars this time, even better as the heavens had indeed decided to open in a flurry.
I saw it! Sitting, majestic, waiting to be the proprietor of home and bed. Awash with surprise that it had been so quick, I left the group waving cheery byes and thankyou's for such a weird yet socially acceptable night. I entered the taxi.
Before my bottom had even touched the the leather quilted seats (who invented that look, its not a good look) the man in the front said, "It's not for you". I failed to see how he knew this as I hadn't informed him of any of my vital details; name, address, blood type, favourite movie...
I asked him how he knew, he turned and sneered, "well unless your name is Adeel, it aint for you". Its undeniable that I do not look like an Adeel, so I slid across and exited the car. A ten second journey that got me nowhere and I was back out in the stormy conditions.
I decided to go up the stairs of which I was waiting for the taxi. A better viewpoint, like some drunken, sodden watch tower. This at first caused no problems, up until I did indeed see what was undeniably my taxi this time. Somebody was attempting to high jack my taxi like a take away fueled Dick Turpin. Its only at this point that I realized my mistake in coming up the stairs. The drink had not socked a hit not unlike Tyson in his prime and well, getting back down the stairs was going to be a struggle.
Only a little one before the conclusion, part three of three next.....
See you soon
We left the expensive perv pit to go to a cheaper place in which gents didn't forget where their hands should and should not go. As we entered this fine establishment, it became quite clear that the night was getting to its last legs. The creeping feeling of sleepiness had set in and was brandishing itself over the alcohol ridden horizon. This, however did not stall me in my quest to destroy my own body, liver first. For some unholy reason I decided it would be a fine idea to by shots. Then some more. Then just a few more.
This had all of a sudden turned into a LMFAO song featuring Lil' Wayne. The shots were toppling, straight into my neck. At first this was not having much of a profound effect but as the inevitable happened and the parting of the pack was upon us, it did. The fresh air acted as the instigator, rushing in and attacking my sobriety levels. We all wandered up the hill as I rang myself a taxi, not an angry black cab for me this time. There was talk of fried chicken based goods, yet my stomach had now begun to turn and I decided against the week old grease filled chickeny goodness. The text message said that the taxi was on its way, good no problems with cars this time, even better as the heavens had indeed decided to open in a flurry.
I saw it! Sitting, majestic, waiting to be the proprietor of home and bed. Awash with surprise that it had been so quick, I left the group waving cheery byes and thankyou's for such a weird yet socially acceptable night. I entered the taxi.
Before my bottom had even touched the the leather quilted seats (who invented that look, its not a good look) the man in the front said, "It's not for you". I failed to see how he knew this as I hadn't informed him of any of my vital details; name, address, blood type, favourite movie...
I asked him how he knew, he turned and sneered, "well unless your name is Adeel, it aint for you". Its undeniable that I do not look like an Adeel, so I slid across and exited the car. A ten second journey that got me nowhere and I was back out in the stormy conditions.
I decided to go up the stairs of which I was waiting for the taxi. A better viewpoint, like some drunken, sodden watch tower. This at first caused no problems, up until I did indeed see what was undeniably my taxi this time. Somebody was attempting to high jack my taxi like a take away fueled Dick Turpin. Its only at this point that I realized my mistake in coming up the stairs. The drink had not socked a hit not unlike Tyson in his prime and well, getting back down the stairs was going to be a struggle.
Only a little one before the conclusion, part three of three next.....
See you soon
Tuesday, 3 April 2012
The Ordeal: Part Three; 1
Firstly an apology, been a busy boy so have neglected this last episode of the Ordeal Trilogy.
The Ordeal: The Last Crusade...
Last time I left we had indeed fed the ever insatiable need to drop the coats by the car. This had taken an awfully long time (read 1 and 2 for more detail) yet I was feeling somewhat satisfied with what had turned from a routine operation to a triple bypass.
Now one problem loomed... back to the club in which the alcohol and dancing were being served quicker than the lies from a politician. We were miles off. We walked round the side of the blessed Cathedral, although I wasn't feeling much love for it at this particular juncture, only to spot the same taxi that had delivered us.
Dare we upset the taxi man further for the measly pounds we would receive for such a short circuit again? No indeed not. Cowardice took over and we walked further, discussing how creepy cemeteries really are, as indeed they are.
We did indeed get into a taxi, the driver far more pleasant that the previous dropped us at the club. Elation, indie music, beer and a shattering of dancing folk were vast and plentiful compared to soaked grounds of the cathedral. The two ladies meandered off the toilet (as ladies do) whilst I ordered a drink. Only at this point did I realize that it was £3 for the cheapest bottle of lager. Yet I did not care. At this point sobriety was leering its somewhat judgmental neck, so I got rid and had another. The ladies were less than impressed with the £12 for two double vodkas yet I digress.
The music was wonderful the night rounding off nicely until the boys within the cub had decided that the two ladies in question were of a desirable nature. Enter the boy circle. This is a function I have not engaged in since 2009 when I would have been 19 year old and worked out very quickly that it doesn't tend to get you anywhere with the girls. This is where a group of males hover nervously around the vicinity of the girls moving in baby steps at a time. Like a car crusher they have them locked in a block of testosterone madness.
the final step of this is to turn and find yourself dancing with the girl (sneaky, sneaky like). The girls don't respond in the way boys like to this. We think in the drunken thought process that the girls would indeed look and even applaud our initiative to get somewhat near to them.
The final point of this maneuver is to unleash man claw!! This is where you enter the hand round the side of the girl, waist height and attempt to spin her so she is now facing you. Now looking into your eyes, she will fall madly in love and eventually sleep with you. Alternatively you creep her right out. The chances of this happening are 99%, I honestly believe this works 1% of the time but for those with no shame one out of a hundred isn't bad.
The only way to counteract this move is for
1. A girl to hit the boy or
2. go for man wall
This is where the males in the group with the girls perform a protective circle around the ladies to protect against the grasping, leering arms of those around them. Almost a condom of dignity.
Lads in clubs, behave! Where did it go where modesty would indeed get you anywhere rather than initial hand rape, in which you poke a hand through a crowd in order to advance like a perverted flu that will not just go away onto a woman?
These boys were indeed blocked out by man wall and all was well again. We moved on to the next place tiredness now creeping in, iridescent of the evening so far.
Part 2 of three (too right I'm like the Twilight films) coming very, very soon...
The Ordeal: The Last Crusade...
Last time I left we had indeed fed the ever insatiable need to drop the coats by the car. This had taken an awfully long time (read 1 and 2 for more detail) yet I was feeling somewhat satisfied with what had turned from a routine operation to a triple bypass.
Now one problem loomed... back to the club in which the alcohol and dancing were being served quicker than the lies from a politician. We were miles off. We walked round the side of the blessed Cathedral, although I wasn't feeling much love for it at this particular juncture, only to spot the same taxi that had delivered us.
Dare we upset the taxi man further for the measly pounds we would receive for such a short circuit again? No indeed not. Cowardice took over and we walked further, discussing how creepy cemeteries really are, as indeed they are.
We did indeed get into a taxi, the driver far more pleasant that the previous dropped us at the club. Elation, indie music, beer and a shattering of dancing folk were vast and plentiful compared to soaked grounds of the cathedral. The two ladies meandered off the toilet (as ladies do) whilst I ordered a drink. Only at this point did I realize that it was £3 for the cheapest bottle of lager. Yet I did not care. At this point sobriety was leering its somewhat judgmental neck, so I got rid and had another. The ladies were less than impressed with the £12 for two double vodkas yet I digress.
The music was wonderful the night rounding off nicely until the boys within the cub had decided that the two ladies in question were of a desirable nature. Enter the boy circle. This is a function I have not engaged in since 2009 when I would have been 19 year old and worked out very quickly that it doesn't tend to get you anywhere with the girls. This is where a group of males hover nervously around the vicinity of the girls moving in baby steps at a time. Like a car crusher they have them locked in a block of testosterone madness.
the final step of this is to turn and find yourself dancing with the girl (sneaky, sneaky like). The girls don't respond in the way boys like to this. We think in the drunken thought process that the girls would indeed look and even applaud our initiative to get somewhat near to them.
The final point of this maneuver is to unleash man claw!! This is where you enter the hand round the side of the girl, waist height and attempt to spin her so she is now facing you. Now looking into your eyes, she will fall madly in love and eventually sleep with you. Alternatively you creep her right out. The chances of this happening are 99%, I honestly believe this works 1% of the time but for those with no shame one out of a hundred isn't bad.
The only way to counteract this move is for
1. A girl to hit the boy or
2. go for man wall
This is where the males in the group with the girls perform a protective circle around the ladies to protect against the grasping, leering arms of those around them. Almost a condom of dignity.
Lads in clubs, behave! Where did it go where modesty would indeed get you anywhere rather than initial hand rape, in which you poke a hand through a crowd in order to advance like a perverted flu that will not just go away onto a woman?
These boys were indeed blocked out by man wall and all was well again. We moved on to the next place tiredness now creeping in, iridescent of the evening so far.
Part 2 of three (too right I'm like the Twilight films) coming very, very soon...
Sunday, 18 March 2012
The Ordeal: Part 2
Part 2: The Temple of Gates-
With drunken thought processes and the hilarity of the night still drifting in the air; Myself, Norway and Mack’um entered Cathedral Campus. This is a student based residency next to the brilliant Anglican Cathedral. It was a sure fire short cut across to the car. We entered and walked down through the Cathedral campus, a route often used by Mack’um as to avoid extortionate charges parking in town yet being close enough as to not have to pack some hiking boots. We wandered through discussing life’s questions in the way that you do when you’re intoxicated.
After a good ten minute walk in the downpour we reached the bottom of the campus. The holy grail, the car was sneaking into vision, hidden just behind the fence. Creeping forever forward, it was pointed out that the gate was shut.
Surely not an issue; there must be a way out of this place onto the main road behind. Think again...
The place was like Alcatraz. It was easier to escape from Colditz and that took 15 episodes! We considered, again in a drunken stupor, sending Mack’um through a gap which I could only just get my foot through, scaling the fence in some form of spider man inspired climb, there was even a mention of attempting to break out. I am not a muscular male and breaking down a locked, metal gate is far out of my reach. We decided to cut back and attempt another route. Waving the car through the fence, that ever evasive car goodbye, we set off down a new route. As with most student residences there was a boy throwing up near a tree and his friend helping or laughing. Helping in our own male orientated way by taking pictures... that sort of thing.
I asked the gentleman who was not throwing up whether or not there was a way out of this place. He paused, for a long time and said “kind of”. He led us down a path and showed us the “way out”. “You might have to climb” he said. Climb indeed. There was a small banking to help you up but in essence this part of the trip had also been wasted. I did seriously consider attempting the climb but even had I gotten over, getting the girls over may have been a bit of a push. Even if I had got over I would have slipped due to the water glazed floor and the beer still churning in my blood, without doubt into mud. This is not to be advised in front of two ladies of distinction. Muddy trousers are not a turn on. Or at least I don’t think so.
Deciding against the scaling of the fence, we asked if there is another way out. The gentleman, who had clearly been smoking something rather naughty, stumbled into another yes. He was very nice man who was chatty and attempting to be as helpful as possible. He offered a route straight through his house to the “other way”. We entered his house; friend still having issues outside, slid down the side of the bike in the hall way, smelled the proof that the gentleman was clearly inclined to a smoke, through the kitchen resisting the urge to compliment the house just in case he thought I was taking the piss. We exited the back door, to find ourselves in a quad of houses. In all fairness we had not moved on. In fact we had gone backwards. I knew the quad from a friend that had lived on the campus previously. We had in fact been led to the gate which we had entered. I attempted not to let the disappointment etch to my face as I thanked the baked young man.
Walking back up the hill toward the cathedral once again, the rain had now stopped, not that my dripping hair or stuck-to-me-shirt knew, Mack’um exclaimed that this was “an ordeal”. It had been. We had spent at least half an hour in the campus only to be back where had started. What had started out as a few drinks had now erupted into a full blown meander across the city. Under the gaze of what must be the most beautiful building in this city, we stood, three lost souls now feeling weirdly sober. This would not do. We still had the coats, we were sobering up so it was suggested that we got into a taxi. Now, this is often a risky business, taxi drivers do not take kindly to small fares generally. At this moment we didn’t care. We jumped into the taxi and he chaperoned us literally a minute and a half to the car costing us a healthy fiver. Despite this he clearly wasn’t too impressed but here it was in all of its majestic motorised glory. The car. The coats which should have never been here in the first place were placed into the car and we started our trek back up to the bustle of human activity.
I cannot understand why there are so many gates that are locked on what is really a big housing estate. It had cost us a good hour drinking time. For the girls the ordeal may have been over. We had battled rain, wind, vomiting stoners, 10,000 gates, muddy banks, bikes in hall ways, angry taxi drivers and the temptation to cut across a grave yard to find the car. For me “the ordeal” wasn’t over the night was due to twist once again....
Next up- Part three: The Last Crusade.
The Ordeal: Part 1
Part 1: Raiders of the Lost Bar
In light of Saturday being that of the Irish patron saint I decided to go for my weekend bashing of my liver on Friday as to avoid the English pretending to be Irish (something for another occasion but it isn't endearing, don't do it). It was my university's student presidential elections; one of my friends was nominated. What more of an excuse was needed, should he win (which he did) to go and attempt to dance and partake in the traditional celebratory drinks?
Last year I reported from the presidential elections held at the Liverpool Guild of Students and the results were not announced until late on into the night. So with this in mind I took my time, danced around my room whilst selecting a shirt had a quick drink before departing for the bus. It was only when I was on the bus that I received the text reporting that I ought to hurry as they were announcing the results. I was still a good ten minutes from time never mind the walk from the bus stop to the guild. My inherent refusal to run anywhere probably wouldn't help; no one needs to be sweaty before a night out.
Despite this I briskly walked to the guild, entering the main hall and searched for the iridescent orange t-shirts which have had hard working campaigners stationed within them for the last few weeks. They were not to be seen. I scanned the room, looking hurriedly for the group. I was wearing my large woollen jacket and the room was very warm, so I could have ran as now I was excreting sweat at a disproportional rate but I digress.
I did find the group just in time for the announcement that my friend had indeed won the election (well done Paul!) This called for some drinks so I picked up my jacket, which had been abandoned onto the floor and moved into the bar. The drinks began to flow nicely, a few shots, a few beers and I was feeling warmed up. I had struck up a conversation with one of my friends who just so happens to be Norwegian and her friend who hailed from the north east. I hadn't met this person before but I often get on well with people from the north east. I like their human attitude towards life, they accept the follies and indiscretions, they relish in the humour that can be found in any situation. This girl was no exception... and thank god for it.
I charged these two girls into a night out, disregarding their dissertations. It didn’t take much pushing I have to say but I was the motivator in this situation. The decision had been made we were indeed going out but to what end we did not know.
One thing was for sure we could not take out our coats but as we were on foreign ground, this not being our student union we could not leave them here. The fine young lady from the North East (or Mack'um as she will now be referred to in the rest of this blog, although I am aware that it is wrote mackem but I say it with an 'um due to my own East Lancastrian twang) said that we could leave them in her car. A fine idea. No one needs a woolly jacket on a night out. It was a horrendous decision to bring it in the first place. So we decided to wander down to where the car had been parked (behind a Chinese shelter? That’s right I hadn't heard of it either). As we reached the chilled night air, it was now hitting about quarter to twelve at night. It was wet and I mean wet. Norway (as she will be known by) had rather intelligently (and indeed somewhat stereotypically) brought a coat, Mack'um had not.
Like a true gent, I'm sure you will agree, I offered up my own coat. She would lend me the space in the car for the coat so she could wear it. I have to admit it was raining heavier than I anticipated regardless of the fact that Mack'um was saying it was making her dress go see through (I, myself could not see the issue with this but... who am I to judge?)
It was pissing it down. This is the only description I could possibly give. The monsoon season had arrived in Liverpool and I was caught in it. The consistent downpour actually didn’t sober me up but emphasised my drunken expressions.
There was to be hope though; Mack'um said that a cut through cathedral campus was the sensible option. I agreed through my dripping hair, which was sporting a now depreciated quiff and although my alcohol based coat was doing me well, I was beginning to become tired of the water God had provided me with.
What was to follow will be forever known as the ordeal...
Next up: The Ordeal: Part 2- The Temple of Gates.
In light of Saturday being that of the Irish patron saint I decided to go for my weekend bashing of my liver on Friday as to avoid the English pretending to be Irish (something for another occasion but it isn't endearing, don't do it). It was my university's student presidential elections; one of my friends was nominated. What more of an excuse was needed, should he win (which he did) to go and attempt to dance and partake in the traditional celebratory drinks?
Last year I reported from the presidential elections held at the Liverpool Guild of Students and the results were not announced until late on into the night. So with this in mind I took my time, danced around my room whilst selecting a shirt had a quick drink before departing for the bus. It was only when I was on the bus that I received the text reporting that I ought to hurry as they were announcing the results. I was still a good ten minutes from time never mind the walk from the bus stop to the guild. My inherent refusal to run anywhere probably wouldn't help; no one needs to be sweaty before a night out.
Despite this I briskly walked to the guild, entering the main hall and searched for the iridescent orange t-shirts which have had hard working campaigners stationed within them for the last few weeks. They were not to be seen. I scanned the room, looking hurriedly for the group. I was wearing my large woollen jacket and the room was very warm, so I could have ran as now I was excreting sweat at a disproportional rate but I digress.
I did find the group just in time for the announcement that my friend had indeed won the election (well done Paul!) This called for some drinks so I picked up my jacket, which had been abandoned onto the floor and moved into the bar. The drinks began to flow nicely, a few shots, a few beers and I was feeling warmed up. I had struck up a conversation with one of my friends who just so happens to be Norwegian and her friend who hailed from the north east. I hadn't met this person before but I often get on well with people from the north east. I like their human attitude towards life, they accept the follies and indiscretions, they relish in the humour that can be found in any situation. This girl was no exception... and thank god for it.
I charged these two girls into a night out, disregarding their dissertations. It didn’t take much pushing I have to say but I was the motivator in this situation. The decision had been made we were indeed going out but to what end we did not know.
One thing was for sure we could not take out our coats but as we were on foreign ground, this not being our student union we could not leave them here. The fine young lady from the North East (or Mack'um as she will now be referred to in the rest of this blog, although I am aware that it is wrote mackem but I say it with an 'um due to my own East Lancastrian twang) said that we could leave them in her car. A fine idea. No one needs a woolly jacket on a night out. It was a horrendous decision to bring it in the first place. So we decided to wander down to where the car had been parked (behind a Chinese shelter? That’s right I hadn't heard of it either). As we reached the chilled night air, it was now hitting about quarter to twelve at night. It was wet and I mean wet. Norway (as she will be known by) had rather intelligently (and indeed somewhat stereotypically) brought a coat, Mack'um had not.
Like a true gent, I'm sure you will agree, I offered up my own coat. She would lend me the space in the car for the coat so she could wear it. I have to admit it was raining heavier than I anticipated regardless of the fact that Mack'um was saying it was making her dress go see through (I, myself could not see the issue with this but... who am I to judge?)
It was pissing it down. This is the only description I could possibly give. The monsoon season had arrived in Liverpool and I was caught in it. The consistent downpour actually didn’t sober me up but emphasised my drunken expressions.
There was to be hope though; Mack'um said that a cut through cathedral campus was the sensible option. I agreed through my dripping hair, which was sporting a now depreciated quiff and although my alcohol based coat was doing me well, I was beginning to become tired of the water God had provided me with.
What was to follow will be forever known as the ordeal...
Sunday, 11 March 2012
6:18 AM
I actually wrote this in December about the time that I had three assignments all due on the same day. I spent the time in the library all night until the first bus in the morning at about 5:35. I wrote this one as I climbed into bed at, that's right you guessed 6:18 AM.
As stars flutter their final hooray,
over still streets as new light breaks,
sharp caffeine drifts away
through sleepy footsteps
comes forward the inescapable day.
Finally down into self regulated warmth,
the mind bruised, tired and torn,
all the tirade of word fueled surrender,
the unsympathetic birds salute an infant dawn.
For me it's the end
rest for a while
burrow downwards
and eventually sleep and smile.
As stars flutter their final hooray,
over still streets as new light breaks,
sharp caffeine drifts away
through sleepy footsteps
comes forward the inescapable day.
Finally down into self regulated warmth,
the mind bruised, tired and torn,
all the tirade of word fueled surrender,
the unsympathetic birds salute an infant dawn.
For me it's the end
rest for a while
burrow downwards
and eventually sleep and smile.
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