Since my friend Jen’s been over here from Chicago, our days largely consist of shopping and drooling over the hot men of Queer as Folk, so I won’t talk too much about those. Our nights are dominated by the pubs.
Monday night it was the Corn Exchange, then the Tenth Lock, where we met the sweet-talking and good-smelling Daz, David and Adam. With them, we took a taxi to the Brewer’s Wharf at the Waterfront, where we sat by the canal and drank Diamond White, as I did my matchmaker thing and hooked Jen up with Daz. After that, it was some other pub – the name of which eludes me – and then Ladies’ Night at the Academy, which was ace. Laydeez pay £1 to get in, and then drink free the rest of the night; pity we only got there a couple of hours before closing.
On Tuesday, I had a reprieve from the pubs, as Jen went to the cinema with Daz. Wednesday night, we went back to the Brewer’s Wharf, and then to a new pub we’d never been to before, called PJ’s. It was brilliant! They had a DJ, and I won two free drinks for knowing the names and titles of a couple of 80’s songs (I could have had more, but I didn’t want to be greedy). The DJ was a total sweetie, and he dedicated Darude’s Sandstorm to us.
Anyway, we met these guys called Chris and Andy, and they took us to a members only club in… somewhere, I forget. There, everyone and his brother tried to teach me how to shoot pool, and I sucked mightily. It wasn’t a proud moment, but luckily I had another hook-up to work on: Jen and Andy. Jen wasn’t sure if she liked him, but I informed her that she did, and she finally agreed. The bad part was that Chris, who’s Andy’s best mate, also liked Jen, and became extremely, and I mean extremely, cheesed off when he saw Jen and Andy snogging in the corridor to the loos.
So we got a taxi home, after I made sure that Jen and Andy had exchanged phone numbers. My work is never done…
In between all that, I’m trying not to make Ian hate me too much for never being home when he’s home, and for drinking every night. Ian’s not really into going out a lot; though he’ll sip whisky at home, he doesn’t really like the pubs around here, and the only time he goes to them is when his friends are all going and I’m along for the ride. He tells me he can’t relate to the kind of person who just wants to go out and get drunk every night, try as I might to explain to him that it’s not even about that.
Jen wants to meet people, and so she should; she’s young, pretty and on holiday. The place to go if you want to meet people around here is the pub, and you can’t just sit in the pub and not have a drink, can you? So, we have some drinks. We move on to better pubs when we get bored, and we have more drinks. Lather, rinse, repeat.
What’s weird is, there seem to be a lot of people who do live for going out and getting completely off their trolleys every night of the week.
Maybe I’m just a lightweight, but the lining of my stomach just couldn’t handle that, and I feel a bit sorry for many of the people I keep seeing over and over again in all the same places. Now, it’s conceivable that they keep seeing me and think that I’m the one who’s deeply sad, but still. What is it about propping up the bar seven nights a week, drinking your wages and going home alone most nights that appeals to these people? Does the one shag they might get every couple of weeks really make it worthwhile? I could understand it if they were with friends, but they’re on their own and looking a bit like a puppy dog who’s searching for a leg to which he can attach himself.
Part of me wants to give them a hug, and part of me wants to give them a slap.
That said, if any gorgeous male pub-crawlers in the Brum area would like me to hook them up with a young, nubile, blonde American fashion student, drop me an email. You’ll do.