And so comes the close of an accidental five day drinking session. Without meaning to, I've been in varying states of drunkenness from mild inebriation to, well, not quite standing on tables with my trousers round my ankles singing Somebody Told Me by The Killers, merely simple slurry cheerfulness. And I've slept for 11 hours and totally screwed up my bodyclock by waking up at 3pm on Sunday afternoon.
I couldn't be more alert if I were in a trench being shot at.
Last night was excellent. Hippy Dave's girlfriend was celebrating her birthday at the Bavarian Beerhouse in town, a kitch underground warren of a place that made me want to go to Munich. (In fact, attending Oktoberfest was discussed, although that has probably been forgotten by all concerned by now).
Huge platters of sausages and sauerkraut were ordered, which delighted me and pissed me off in equal measure as I forgot they were coming and had ordered a Bavarian dish that resembled vomit salad (And I'm not commenting on the taste either).
The waitresses were delightfully attired in Bavarian Dirndl dresses, even if they did look stressed at having to dole out stein after stein of Paulaner as the beerhall is largely table-service. (If there were buckets under the tables, I wouldn't have had to move all night.) The waitresses also looked equally unimpressed at dribbling Neanderthal arseholes staring at their breasts all evening, but despite attempts at discretion, I kept getting caught.
Our waitress was particularly attentive - although I have a feeling I was enchanted by her breasts a little too much. I'm currently writing this with a comprehensive, almost sixth-sense recollection of every contour and dip of her cleavage.
Despite my staring, and not helped by the fact that at one point, my friends all cheered just because she'd taken my next order and walked off, I found myself talking to her later on. I had been sitting on a bench alone when she sat down next to me for a chat.
'That's intriguing', I thought. She's a cute marketing student from Austria, and we were having a nice conversation until some sodding customer staggered over to place an order for more beer, forcing her to leave. I didn't see her again until it was time to pay my tab.
Although she wasn't going on anywhere afterwards ("I'm going to bed", she kept insisting, and I didn't want to state the obvious/ creepy), I did buy her a schnapps even though my lovely Muslim ladyfriend expressly forbade me from buying the waitresses drinks. Unfortunately, I have a rather pathetic habit of buying drinks for female barstaff for no other reason than I find them really attractive and it's a quick and expensive way of letting them know when they're too busy and I'm too shy.
When I was told that there was no service charge included in the bill, I gave her a huge tip (money, not penis) and then never saw her again after that. Granted, they were closing and rushing around to clear up, but I was left with the sense that in return for being ogled at all night, they get tipped well over the odds by grateful idiots.
The most powerful weapon in the world isn't the split atom. It's a pair of tits squeezed into a corset.
I got into a mild argument with Hippy Dave in the cab on the way home. I'm currently reading Beyond Coincidence, a daft book with several daft chapters on possible scientific explanations for coincidences, a conclusion that it's probably all chance, then hundreds of remarkable stories.
I dared to offer my amazing story. Six years ago, I was in the small Indian village of McLeodganj, home of the Tibetian government in exile and of the Dalai Lama, where I was in a small bar with my travelling companion and a girl we both fancied. While sitting there, a lady, one of the other patrons, approached me.
'Excuse me, is your name Fwengebola?' she asked.
'Erm, yes?' I replied.
'And did you go to Bournemouth University?'
It turned out that she'd studied there at the same time as me. We had a brief chat, then she left the bar as she was about to emigrate to Australia the following day.
Wow. Very weird. Dave didn't particuarly think so. But there was more. Three years after that meeting, I had decided to quit my dead-end job. I was in my life is passing me by phase, and decided to go travelling. I chose India again, Sri Lanka and Thailand, for a few months of finding myself. And when I'd got to Bankgkok, I found myself in a bar called Shamrocks on the Khao San Road. And while I was in this packed bar, that same girl, also there for the night, walked over to me and said 'What are you doing here?'
This still wasn't good enough for Dave. It still wasn't remarkable, or weird, or even meant anything at all. I know what he means as I feel vaguely the same way about it. After all, McLeaodganj and the Khao San Road are very well trodden destinations. Plus a coincidence isn't a coincidence if we don't spot it; they may happen all the time for all we know. But even so, Hippy Dave's still a party-pooping naysayer. In a word of uncertainties, coincidences give us a sense that there may be something meaningful, even magical, in this otherwise godless unstructured world.
They may be nonsense, but they're nice too.
But I know this much; Of all the bargirls I've ever bought drinks for, I'll never coincidentally run into any of them again.
PS ~ My stalker is back, claiming not to be Haggis, and asking if I enjoyed my wank. It is getting rather tiresome.