It’s drunken ramble time!
yeah
The night starts with an urban sundown. No purples, oranges or yellows - there needs to be a horizon for that, and I’m walled in on all sides by buildings. Instead, I stare up at the slow progression from bright blue to glimmering navy as night descends, on the way to purchasing alcoholic drinks from an off-licence.
Somewhere five miles off, the others have started drinking already; what’s more, they started a long time ago. I figure there is no way I’m going to end up as inebriated as them this evening, and only buy a few miniatures. In-flight alcohol. Decadent, but handy.
I come back, eat, and go out, listening to James Cotton and his Blues Band playing Rocket 88, as the 384 bus takes me to tonight’s destination.
Romiley is not a heavily populated place.
The evening is a cheery one at first. Calm, neutral, just stupid enough to be mildly exciting. Daniel Andrew serves as our court jester, while Greg - the host - acts as the rational core. Dave Burin dances to everything. They’re not laughing with you, Dave. Sorry.
Music seems to be the main event. Keyboard and guitar dominate the night - at least, from where I’m sitting. Gordon and Ian - people I vaguely know - turn up wearing hand-knitted dresses. I marvel at the ingenuity, speechless, unable to react. They act normal. I feel somewhat inferior for a moment. There is spontaneity.
Other people - about ten, from Greg’s old school - arrive. I don’t know any of them, but at the same time I recognise them - blips and moments from faces around college. A completely impersonal place, college, until you actually get the nerve to talk to any of the silent faces.
Reckless sportsmanship costs lives. In tonight’s case, a tooth of the host. He tries to get a gun to shoot the offender. It was an accident, honest. The boy legs it, while Greg calms down. He goes to A&E. We stay in the house.
Time passes, but not necessarily chronologically. We’ll get back together, I know it. You can’t know anything. I still love her; she still loves me. Love is always a temporary thing. Value it as you’d value anything else temporary. Don’t spend your life hoping for something better - look for better while enjoying what you’ve got. A flick of the head: All the anti-depressants I’ve tried, including the one I’m on, have given me awful side effects. I’m stalling until I go to Florida, then until Japan. Stalling, huh? Great way to deal with it. “Uhuh? Go on, I’m listening.”
Viking metal on the bus. Worry at pissed off passengers. Twenty minute walk home.
Text. Another in hospital. Concern. Better not be serious.
“Y-you cuhn just sshut the ffuck uhp and gerrout.” No, you can, you lumbering drunken brute. Change your T-shirt, you look a fucking mess. If you’re in charge, we’re in trouble.
This is the song of our one and a half year relationship. Chord, chord, chord, vocals. Ours was ‘Spitting Games’ by Snow Patrol. Odd, that. A love song, yes, but not a particularly poignant one, just one with a catchy hook. I mutter this, badly strum a few chords.
Chris, you’re wasted. No, I’m not.
Ambulance sirens scream through the night. Leave us in peace, invalids, the roads are clear. Zoom in silence, no-one will notice.
The skies are dark, punctuated by burning white-hot stars. I feel insignificant, but in awe of the rest of the universe. A lot of gazing at the sky today. Amazing how we always look either down or straight ahead, never up. We should look up more often. There’s more up there than there is down here.
I get back. The album “02” by Son of Dave ends. Exhausted. Bed. Sleep. Never want to wake up.
