Song Lyric of the Day: “Feeling all of forty-five going on fifteen” – W.O.L.D. Harry Chapin
Movie Quote of the Day: “How about a greasy pork sandwich served in a dirty ashtray?” – Weird Science
On Wednesday I set off for my much anticipated 48 hour child-free jolly. Shirking parental responsibilities to the charge of the Bman for 2 days. Cash in my pocket and ready to drink to excess, get tattooed and skinny dip off the end of the pier in Brighton. Possibly running away with a lesbian, as long as she looked like the Mother of Dragons from Game of Thrones or Shirley Manson from Garbage circa 1996.
I can’t tell you how ridiculously thrilled I was to be on the train with my MP3 on full blast of mishmashed eclectic musical taste; with a Greggs tuna crunch baguette, a cappuccino & a bag of mini ring doughnuts. (Usually I spend my money on the kids’ food and don’t get myself anything when we do a train journey).
It was actually quite tragic how happy this made me. So sad that I made a mental note to add Beck’s ‘Loser’ to my next playlist.
Finally got into London after 3 hours on a train that rarely seemed to travel faster than walking pace until we’d gone past Doncaster.
I negotiated the tube to Victoria like a native (have Oyster/will travel) and was on a train to Brighton by 2:30pm.
I was very excited. I’ve never been to Brighton and I was meeting one of my oldest, bestest friends for a big old catch-up/therapy session. Got there for 3:30pm and after a brief flirt around the town I found my hotel, opposite the pier.
Time for a shit, shave and a shower before meeting my good friend, who will remain nameless for the purposes of this blog for legal reasons, even though they have allowed me to refer to them as ‘Cunt’ – but I won’t, even though it is a great word. (By legal reasons, I mean not getting busted that they blobbed off work for the next 2 days because they can’t handle a few beers).
Anyway, off we went, ready to set the world to rights, starting with our own lives, our pasts, our regrets, (never regret the things you did, just the things you didn’t!) Guilts (too many in some cases – you need to let that shit go man!)
I do regret forgetting to take any pictures of the evening. No comedy selfies or glamorous poses to post all over social media. I’m pretty sure though that if I had, this is what we looked like:-
Or possibly more like this:-
We started with a drink at The Mesmerist then went for eats at Bella Pasta where I ordered a Mojito, but was told they could only do it without mint, as they’d run out. Not a fucking Mojito then is it pal? So I settled for a Bellini instead.
Bellies fully lined we went to the Mash Tun then down the sea front to the Fortune of War where it was seemingly karaoke singalong with the band times, while we continued to set the world to rights one vodka and orange / beer at a time. At this point I did take some pictures, but not of us looking philosophical, mature, wise and fabulous. Instead I took pictures of profound graffiti spotted on the back of the toilet door on one of my many trips for a wee.
We then moved on to the gayer side of town and ended up in a place next to a shop selling PVC chaps and peephole basques. It was called The Bulldog and I was promised it was open 24hrs. (What could go wrong?) It wasn’t actually as scary as I imagined, although I was slightly distracted from conversation with my drinking partner by the lady infront of me on a bar stool doing a wordsearch with a loaf of cut-price bread infront of her (reduced to 10p!). Had she popped out Micky Flanagan style for bread and milk and ended up going “Out Out”? I needed to know, but was afraid to ask.
It soon became apparent that the bar was closing and not 24 hours at all, so a new plan of attack had to be formed. With help from our old friend Google and guided by our new friend – an old gay man in a bucket hat, clutching a plastic bag and sporting fresh hospital identity tags, we headed to the sea front to Legends. After furnishing our guide with a Malibu & Coke for his troubles we settled in for further drinking and lively conversation. Topics included, lesbianism, marriage guidance, matchmaking and my suggesting that this probably wasn’t the best place to say several times out loud that life would be easier if you were gay. It was like a beacon attracting the local homosexual community to your heterosexual drunken flame.
Our new friend it seemed had been hospitalized the day before after having suffered a stroke. He’d discharged himself, hence still sporting the tags. The plastic bag had a Tupperware box of homemade chocolate cookies within. A gift from some students on the bus apparently. I asked if they were special cookies for grown-ups but he said no, so I didn’t have one. He also introduced us to another local elderly gay man whom he thought I might like to talk to as he was also from Yorkshire. If he had been able to string a coherent sentence together we may’ve got on. But I guess I will now never know. I hope I am as bonkers as those two when I am 60 years old!
Before we knew it, it was 3am so we decided to call it a night. I headed back to my hotel, where I was let it by the Night Manager who was more Charles Hawtrey than Tom Hiddleston, more’s the pity.
I awoke several hours later but not later enough for my taste, thanks to the room next door’s phone alarm going off at 5am and the housekeeping chick vacuuming the landing at 9:30am.
I loafed about in bed watching Homes under the Hammer and chuckling at their use of one of my favourite ever Pulp tracks – Sheffield Sex City (but careful of course not to include the lyrics).
I coaxed my drinking buddy out of their pit by text and made them come out and meet me again so we could go for lunch. For a change and goodness knows how – presumably due to the OJ in my vodka – I was considerably less fucked up than them. My fragile pal seemed barely on the edge of functioning. Neither chips, sea air, hair of the dog, coffee refills nor the sight of a naked man stood on the beach staring pensively out to sea, seemed to help. So we gave up and resorted to the only known remedy – going back home to sleep.
Nana naps rule y’all! Except when you are rudely awoken by the dulcet sound of the occupants of next door and the occupants of the room above enjoying some teatime delights – and I’m not talking tea and scones here.
I wasn’t sure whether to be disgusted or envious. Fortunately for me (but perhaps not for those involved, it was over very quickly).
Ding Ding. Round 2 drinks later that evening was a decidedly less lively affair, less gay, but still enjoyable. I think I broke my friend. Sorry about that you soft southern cunt.
Love you really dude.
So, no further tattoos and it was a bit too parky to skinny dip and no lesbian fling – although I’m told there was some interest in my direction from a pair of sturdy gals at the bar in Legends.
Maybe next time. And there will be a next time. You can count on that.
If the break taught me one thing (& it taught me a few) it’s that I don’t get out enough. I don’t have enough fun. And I am fucking fun. I am fucking fabulous and if you don’t appreciate me then fuck you! And, like the ladies frequenting the loo at the Fortune of War have kindly pointed out – you need to live the life you love, you need to learn to use your amazing power, and more importantly you need to trust your
Ciao bella MoFos Xx