Old Enough to Know Better

... or The back story

When I am old and have dementia no-one will be able to tell. A few weeks ago I put a band night on with a friend. It was so much fun. Some of my favourite bands came to play and we actually made some money for a wee change. But things are never straight forward. I’ve had a bit of flirting with one of the guitarists. Bit of flirting, bit of heavy flirting, bit of mutual thigh rubbing. Lots of texts and emails. Lots of late night drunken msn conversations. Tonight would indeed be the night. Except his (lets call him GM) ex girlfriend is there and he seems to be a bit confused. Oh and I still have stitches in my mouth following oral surgery. NICE. Bit rank tbh, they smell and they look vile. I prolly shouldn’t have told him this. I know I shouldn’t have told him this because when I made my sophisticated move (“fancy a snog, love?”) I was rebuffed with “you’ve still got stitches in your mouth”. True. “But your mate Josh didn’t mind.” Yeah that’s right. Someone else got there first. Bassist in another band. So GM not interested I wander back to Posh Josh. Wander – stumble drunkenly. In between snogging Posh Josh and snogging Posh Josh some more I accidentally kissed someone else and I’m not entirely sure who. I have ideas. It was either the singer or the other guitarist from GMs band. You see I was trying to kiss him (whoever he was) on the cheek but missed, kissed his lips and carried on a bit. Oops.

So the next morning, I feel dog rough. Bit confused. But happy. I mean, I have no intention of seeing Posh Josh again but he kissed me. That’s good. And he asked for my number. And then eventually he asked my name. Log in to Facebook. Work of the devil! Who does facebook think I might know? Oh yeah, Posh Josh! Oh go on then lets have a peak. How old is he? 21?! Hmmm could have been worse. GIRLFRIEND???? Oh noes! Check the pictures…. Oh yeah no internet irony here. This is no fake relationship. What a rat. Send him a text message. Generic rubbish something like “hope you had fun! Thanks guys for playing my gig!” he can’t possibly misinterpret that, can he? Well, I never did get a reply.

Fast Forward a week. I have not heard much from GM but he is on tour. Too busy to reply to texts perhaps. Or perhaps its because another ex is hosting the York party and he’s confused over that too. Pfff. Anyway forget all these losers its Good Friday! Foals are in Brighton! HURRAY! I’ve got a pint of Guinness, the support band are on, I love my friends, I have a sudden massive urge to turnaround – ARGH! Posh Josh! And Girlfriend! Two feet away damn. He so made eye contact with me. Raced her out of there kick march. Well, fuck you boyo, I haven’t done anything wrong. So down a pint and say hello. Bollocks this could go wrong. Singing to myself in my head “just keep smiling, just keep smiling” (to the Finding Nemo tune) I am as polite as pie to both of them. “Lovely to meet you” I say straight at her. Yeah, so clearly mutual. That’s a look that would stab me up in a dark alley. Pppffff. Drink another three pints of Guinness. Oh why? I’m raging drunk and got three hours of journey time home. *sigh*

Ok Saturday I feel appalling. Nothing new there. Remember not very much. I think a bottle of red wine was consumed on Brick Lane. Oh yeah I remember now. And a bottle of vodka when I got home. A little one. Hipflask sized. I’m not an alky.

Easter Sunday.. man, I’m rough. Up rather early for Church. Wobble lots. Miss the bus. Fuck. Finally get a bus. Miss the stop. Fuck. Run, run, run. Oh text! Run and read! Its GM! I do exist! Oh it’s a generic “Londoners come to our gig tonight” hmmmm perhaps. I reply “perhaps, but you know it’s a religious festival today” “I’ll be cross if you don’t come” he says. Yeah true dat! Cos I didn’t go and not a word since.

Easter Monday. How on earth am I hungover today? I don’t deserve this. Posh Josh and band have gig walking distance from my house. It would be rude not to go. On the other hand I’d be alone. Hmmm. OK I will go, only cos I like the band not him. So I will go late, and blend in at the back. Not speak to him. It will be fine. Doors are at 8pm. I get there 8.45 hopefully they’re not onstage yet. Oh fuck. Swim Team dropped out, doors now open at 9pm. I’m early. Early and alone. Joy. Pint of Guinness it is then. And another. Oh look at me. You can’t not look at me. I’m the only fucking person here. Me and three teenagers and the support band. The support band are rather good. Have another pint. Posh Josh is definitely ignoring me. I read the paper. Definitely ignoring me. So his band are on. I feel rough. Very, very rough. They’re good. Very,very good. I feel a bit sick. After the gig I run to the loo. Feel a sweaty arm around me. Its Posh Josh! He says something. I stare blankly feel a bit sick. Chat drunkenly to the support band. Offer them a gig another time. Feel ill go home. Outside Posh Josh is on the phone. Probably to his girlfriend. He takes the phone away from his face but doesn’t hang up I notice. Hugs me and kisses me on the cheek. Hmmm not sure about this. I fail to smile. I go home.

Tuesday. MY WORD. Do I feel grim. The builder is trying to knock down a wall while I am trying to stay up right against it. He should ask me to move. He doesn’t. I don’t. The world is an agony. Supposed to go to a raw restaurant tonight. I’m not sure why raw food is so expensive, its not like it takes much to heat. Anyway I can’t cancel I hardly ever see this friend so I go. On the way there I try not to heave. Eat and eat. Wow! Its all so nice. And I do love a merlot. Mmmm. Half way through dessert (chocolate and orange marble cake garnished with pansies) I feel ill. Ahh nevermind, it’s a shame to waste food and its too bloody expensive. On the way home I have a sudden stabbing pain in my fat belly. Oh fuck the bus is a long time coming. There’s something stuc in my throat. Get a tissue, have a cough, fell better. EXCEPT … not just a cough. Damn. Why are there no dark alleys left without CCTV? Fuck. I’m sick on the pavement. Worse. I put a tissue to my face and end up back splashing myself. IN MY HAIR. MY FUCKING HAIR. Oh and my eye. Nice. Purple lumpy sick in my hair and eye. Turnaround. Fuck. I had an audience of Tapas eaters over the road. *weeps* wipe my face and hair as best I can. I wish it would rain and wash the pain away. No rain. Get the bus. No bumps please I still have a belly full. Oh I recognise that woman. Oh noes! A psychotherapist form my real job has just got on the bus. She looks at me quizzically. Yup. I still have vomit on me somewhere, don’t I? damn.