Sunday, November 26, 2006

Brighton; Or How To Ensure I Never Have Sex Again

Like those whistles only dogs can hear, I must have a tattoo on my forehead only women can see: 'LEPER.'

The weekend held so much promise; my friends (all married or girlfriended, barring me), a trendy city of bars and clubs, lots of women, the heady scent of sexual promise. Now I know men who have rented a room in a hotel somewhere interesting. They go out for a drink, meet a likeminded individual, and sex is on the cards. Sex is then on the hotel bed, hotel floor, bathroom, armchair and all over the sheets.

I have never done this (Weekend Hotel Sex, that is. I have had sex before, and with some lovely women who took pity on me.) All I want, at least ONCE in my single fucking life (that's a non-literal 'fucking'), is to go to a new city, have a whale of a time in a bar with a ladyperson, then have sex with said lady, or at least get into a brief tryst in the corner, lipswise. Then one day, when I've settled down with Someone Special, I can at least feel like I had some sexual adventures in my wild and misspent singledom.

So... back to the real world. I was the first to arrive as I took Friday off work (Cheap Day Single to Brighton from London Victoria: £17.80. Bastards.) An old mate of mine, Monkey Dave, is a teacher there, so I arranged to meet him at his local for a quick drink.

4pm: Monkey Dave arrives. First beer consumed.
5.30pm: Monkey Dave's teacher mates arrive. Shocked to hear them swear. Discussions turn to troublesome child who likes to stand on desks and expose himself in return for a pound.
5.45pm: Attractive lady teacher arrives. Some eye contact. Unable to say hello due to positioning of tables, general bad timing, and slightly obtrusive music.
5.55pm: Have to head to Hotel as friends are soon to arrive. Pass Sainsburys so buy bottles of vodka and coke on semi-drunken whim.
6.30pm: Hippy Dave arrives. Vodka cracked open. Ali & Rob 1 appear. More vodka drunk. Text Monkey Dave to say his teacher friend was cute. He texts back 'Boyfriend.'
Costume change.
7.45pm: In Cubar next door to hotel. Luke & Rob 2 casually saunter in. Whip gathered, £120 which I take care of. I am lightheaded.
8.30pm: The Royal Sovereign. Looks like a cosy old pub from the outside, is more like a trendy bar within. Gorgeous if surly buxom blonde behind the bar, with equally attractive brunette colleague who smiles at me. Things are looking good. I put this down to the fact that I'm wearing shoes and I have my smart-casual jacket™ on.
Rob 1 declares the man near us to be a famous celebrity chef. There is much debate so I ask him if he's a chef and get 'No' snapped at me.
Now unwise to drive.
Decide to tell gorgeous if surly buxom blonde that she's gorgeous. Brunette overhears and says, somewhat enigmatically, that if I'm going to make those kind of comments, I've got to go through her first. I then tell her she's gorgeous too.
Then I apologise.
Friends call me a moron.
9pm-ish: The Pav Tav. Very studenty. Everyone is much younger and I feel overdressed. Definitely unable to operate machinery. Loud. We have to yell. I buy Schnapps using the whip and get complaints that I should've bought whiskey instead. We leave. Actually, the place may have been closing.
Slurring heavily.
The Beer Taxi spirits us to a late bar. I am with Rob 2 and Ali. The others were there, but then they weren't. I talk to a really lovely brunette and seem to get on really well with her. I buy her a drink, then run out of money. She vanishes. I find myself standing directly in front of a man with a trumpet. People all around me are dancing, so I dance too. Rob 2 & Ali are nearby, then they're not, then I think they are and I look for the girl and see 30 lookalikes and am too ashamed to ask them if I was talking her earlier.
I am alone and waiting for a battered sausage in a brightly lit kebab shop, talking to a drunk Scouse policewoman. She's friendly but unwilling to do anything that will comprimise her procurement of chips. Behind us are a further dozen Scouse policewomen stuffing their yapholes full of more chips. None of them seem to know or care of my existence.
I leave.
Hotel. Excited to see small bar in our reception filled to the rafters with enthusiastic dancing people. Race up to room, Luke asleep. Eat saveloy, run back down to bar. Buy drink. Sit on sofa. Accidentally pour entire contents onto my crotch. Leave immediately, walking awkwardly.


Rob 1 bangs on door and demands we get up. I am laughing at everything and am clearly still drunk. Discussion of hotel. Beds far too small, duvets the size of handtowels, floorboards creak, toilet water thrashes in toilet (despite being in windowless room) as it's windy outside.
Walk to seafront for bacon sandwiches. Remainder of whip only just covers coffees. Awkward questions asked about where the money went, and decide not to look after it this time round. Attractive girl with nice eyes makes us purple smoothies that taste like wall.
Head starts to feel like it's in a vice.
Walk up Brighton Pier. Told to stop mentioning that my family supplied the timber for it. Cold.
Aimless wandering. Group split between those that want to look at Brighton's new library for some reason, and those that don't. Arrange to meet Monkey Dave in nearby pub. His girlfriend and their dog with disturbingly human eyes are there (see below). Reluctantly start drinking again.

Fucking hammered. Dog petted to death. Decide to buy a dog when I notice the attention women give them. Rob 1 tracks us down and tells us we're yelling our heads off. Feel hungover and pissed at exactly the same time.
Arrive at pie restaurant. Eat pies. Sober up significantly. New whip gathered. I am not allowed near it.
Another group split. One half in quirky avant garde bar with lots of living-roomy stuff and boho chic, whatever that means. Luke & Rob 1 in soulless chain bar next door. Kooky bar contains a couple in heavy white face paint playing ukeleles and singing songs about gouging out eyes. Female half of band quite cute despite white geisha makeup. A beer has been bought for me in each venue and I'm forced to run between them at regular intervals.
Discover door to roof over bar. Walk outside and see houseparty underway in flat opposite. Yell out to goth and ask if I can come over. Goth says 'Yes'.
Scottish man from ukelele duo comes over to chat to me. Very quickly mentions his girlfriend and points at lady from band. Make mental note not to go near her.
Quirky bar closes. The six of us walk over to houseparty. Shocked looking Goth opens door to find us there. Canadian with dead fish tied round his waist asks if there are any women with us. I reply in the negative. Door slammed in our faces.
Talk to handcuffed man near seafront. His friends had chained him to railings. We free him and he runs off to kill them.
In the Wagon & Horses. Cute barmaid with big brown eyes who smiles a lot. Some low-level flirting. Whip runs out so I buy a round of gins. Ask barmaid where she's going to next and she tells me. I then forget where it was once we're back on the road.
Outside an awful bar that won't let us in. Peter Andre's dreadful hit Mysterious Girl is playing. Two men start yelling at the window so I run over to see back of a Very Attractive Girl in knickers dancing extremely provocatively. I touch the window as if I'm a prison convict tenderly reaching out at the glass that divides me from my loved ones. Girl spots me staring like a deer frozen by headlights and turns to wiggle even more provocatively.

I start crying.

Local idiots then start banging on the window to presumably get more attention from her - god alone knows how much more she could give - which encourages the bouncers to come out and tell us to fuck off.
Strange man appears from within and claims to be DJ twot Pete Tong. Resemblance is close enough for group argument. I still maintain that one of Britain's biggest DJs (annoyingly) is unlikely to be in a small Brighton club that plays bad pop from ten years ago, and hovers handily near the doors to help out the bouncers.
In the Cubar where we started. I'm desperate to prolong the night so buy another round. Small clumps of women. Very eager to talk to them but feel an underlying creepiness about the whole thing. Tell ridiculously huge bouncer from Alaska that he's massive. He thanks me. Joined table of three Spanish women for a chat. Friends go off to bed. Rest of bar clears. Me, three Spanish girls, the barman and the enormous Alaskan bouncer stay to talk in now empty bar. I'm bizarrely nowhere near drunk and have an extremely pleasant chat with one Spanish girl who says they have to leave as they all have to work the next day. I decline to tell her she's attractive (she is), and forget to at least make it clear that I like her as I now have a barman nearby with similar thoughts on his mind listening to our conversation.

They leave, I go up to my room and remove my penis so I can donate it to science. It's barely been used so I may even get a few quid for it.


Fussy Bitch said...

Oh sweetie I'm sorry you didn't get any action but it was bloody funny to read. That dog has extremely spooky eyes, I may have nightmares now.

Is it this week that you have your karate grading?

fwengebola said...



Anonymous said...

So funny, Fweng, just so funny. If you ignore the fact that you didn't get laid, it really does sound like a very good weekend.

fwengebola said...

Yes, and now I'd like some time off to recover. But I can't. I have work now. Shite.

Shoshana said...

What's a whip? (Excuse my ignorant American questions, maybe if I just get this stuff down, when I do actually visit the UK, I'll do it in good stead.)

Anonymous said...

If only I had been there when you met the Spanish girls. With my rudimentary spanish to help you, you would have been laughing! Or maybe not.

Fweng, still doing drinks tomorrow? Tuesday is the new Friday after all!

fwengebola said...

Shosh, a whip, or whipround, collecting money off people, i.e. a kitty. Pooling all our money together and getting drinks from that. Don't know why it's called that though.

Hobe - Their English was great and she was cute. * Sniff *. Can't do tomorrow! It's over for November! I need to recover as I really don't want to drink for at least a decade, plus I'm too scared to look at my bank account at the moment. I get paid on Friday though...

Anonymous said...

Exactly, you get paid on Friday, which means you can afford a tenner tomorrow.

No rounds. Instead we buy our own drinks.

fwengebola said...

Ok Hobe, in two minds about Tues drinking...
Should A) Go to bed now and B) Could get a lift in with boss-who-lives-near-me-and-has-work-van, thus won't cycle in, and can easily go straight out on the town. Hmmmmm.

Oh, and I'm rather keen to meet women. It's been months... (etc)

RaiseYourEyebrows said...

I had to stop for a break by the time I got to 'I am crying' as I was crying too - with pure laughter.

You and NWM (when she got Lost)are pure genius and mood altering.

fwengebola said...

Bless you, RYE. We're like acid.

luna said...

Is that your smart casual shirt seen as a background to the dog?

If that's the case sorry to say so no surprise that you frighten Goths and women in equal measure.
This shirt is only fit for mulching the organic waste in.
Or was that what you were doing all along?

fwengebola said...

Au contraire. That is the green blouse of Monkey Dave. His enormous leathery hands with barely-opposible thumbs are slightly visible.

I myself was taking the picture whilst looking devilishly smart and handsome.