I work in a supermarket. It's a widely known factoid of King. What with supermarkets being so damn super all the time it means that the stores are rammed all year round. As a result, the staff of said supermarkets never get a chance to let their hair down during the festive season. This means that while all you "Monday-To-Friday-Nine-To-Fivers" get to feel each others dangly bits during December we have to do it in January. It's OK though, we still get to open crackers.
Last Saturday (30/1/10) was my staff party. This is a Saturday Night Story.
"£15 a ticket and I bet you there won't be any wine on the tables..."
Don't get me wrong, the actual staff party was textbook. A wedding reception hall had been miraculously shifted back in time 6 weeks so that the world was still reeking with the stench of Christmas. Cheap crackers, napkins emblazoned with holly et al. After a minor fiasco which marked an unfashionably late arrival for me, I managed to muscle my way onto a table of pretty young things just so they could watch me get gravy all in my beard. While we were eating food the DJ (I use the term "DJ" very liberally here) spun some of my favourite tunes. This was met with mixed reviews in my brain considering that I could either: A) Leave my food and get crunk on my own to "Soul Man" by Sam & Dave, or B) Om nom nom nom. I chose the latter and just grooved my chair deeper into the carpet.
Once the Longford banquet was over the DJ *cough* continued to spin more of my favourite tunes including the collossal "Nutbush City Limits" by Tina Turner. I nearly got naked. The night was filled with much predictable works doo related debauchery including one genuine wounding of a teamleader and the obligatory dance-off. The venue was kicking out at midnight so it had been the consensus among me and friends all along to head to the bright lights of Swansea. More importantly, Oceana. Dun dun dun.
"Yeah, yeah, I know, I know. Wreched Hive of Scum and Villainy - Got it."
Two six seater chariots were summoned to transport us to our destination. This is when I first ignored my gut instincts about bailing home. The ride itself was a joy as I had been nominated to handle the money at the end of the journey. This was principally due to the fact I can count to 20 without having to take my shoes and socks off. Also, I was closest to the driver. The stagecoach dropped us off right outside our port of call; The Reichstag of nightclubs - Oceana. I wonder if there'll be a fire tonight?
For those of you that are unfamiliar with this particular establishment it is a essentially a massive nightclub. It has many rooms - some large, some small, all of which are decorated differently and play different genres of music. It's as if the cultural aesthetics of a typical "nightclub" have been fused with that of a... I don't know... a motherfucking supermarket? Many aisles, some large, some small, all which have different layouts and different stock.
Stood outside this shadowy Lidl of the night I ignored my gut instincts for a second time. "Fly, you fool." Instead, I clicked my boot heels and was promptly Oscar Mike.
"I'm sure I can feel a spot of Stigmata coming on..."
We entered the clubs "Bar Quarter." It's the ground level portion of the nightclub that's free to enter but also has access to the clubs wallet-busting underbelly. The half a dozen of us that had breached the building had arranged to meet the rest of our clan downstairs. My feet were dragging slightly at the thought of it and my motor mouth suddenly started enquiring as to whether or not we should have a beer in here first, to meet the rest of the guys. To buy some time. I could really go for some sweet, sweet time right about now.
This idea was quashed and we mashed into the doorway to the paydesk. Enter: Mouthbreather.
Bouncer: "Have you got a hair band mate?"
King: "Am I in a hair band?"
Bouncer: "Have you got a hair band?"
King: "Yes, why?"
Bouncer: "You'll have to put your hair back mate."
King: "You're serious?"
Bouncer: "Yes, mate. And tuck it into your collar."
Cereal. They made me put my hair back and tuck it into my collar. Burn baby, burn. You know what was priceless though? I fucking did it. Just like he said. Enter gut instinct ignorance number three. I then mooched over to the paydesk and enquired as to how much this shitfest was going to set me back. Eight Pounds.
Heavens to Murgatroid! Looking back now I'm surprised I didn't start bleeding out of my eyes.
"Fly, you fool."
Once again, I silenced that massive part of me that does nothing but listen to Technical Progressive Death Metal and payed up. Heavily, clumsily and in a daze I descended the stairs. My destination? The Disco Room.
Don't Stop 'Til You Get Enough?
The Disco Room is a dense, dark and sticky place. You are bombarded with cube lighting, heavy patterns and kitschy 70's Americana. The kind of place that gestates a very wicked chlostrophobia in my man ovaries. I stare a yard or two in front of my feet, occasionally glancing up to check my meandering path through the grim and the greasy. My hands are clenched into fists. Not in a Safeways Goth "I'll-rip-out-my-grimoire-and-curse-you-if-you-step-on-my-New-Rocks-again" kinda way; I do it so that my meat hooks hopefully won't be mistaken for caressing the derriere of some cackling dolly bird.
The bar is small, but adequately sized for the room. I easily mooch my way to the front as a gang of boys leave the bar, literally carrying armfuls of phosphorescent sugar water. I am positioned in the centre of the bar - a prime location for the aquisition of... well... phosphorescent sugar water I guess. I stare at myself in digust in the mirror behind the bar. Those mirrors are in place to create the illusion of space. The space between my ears. I wait...
The Theoretical Underpinnings of the Aesthetics of Darren J. King: Chapter XIV - "Chavving It Up."
I'll pause here and try to the describe how my brain frequently operates on any night out. When I get to a certain stage of drunkeness, where I'm not mashed up - just a little Ginned up - I find that my thought processes still appear to be lightening fast; but I can just catch up with them. Let's say my thought processes from thinking "nothing" to thinking "something," go from A to C.
In this perfect state I can catch my thought at the illusive point B and if needs be, alter it. I'm like Neo or whatever.
This ability finds me intercepting two principle thoughts consistantly throughout the night. These thoughts always pertain in some way to: A) How much something is costing me, and B) How long it's taking me to get something / somewhere. My attention to the costliness of items is a day-to-day thing, but in this state my "How Fucking Much?!" gland is inflamed. Inflamed by Gin. But what is genuinely horrible is my pinpoint analysis of time. If I'm queueing for a beer in this state I become frantic. This is due to one single fact that insists on floating through my head:
"The time you spend here; you'll never get it back. Ever."
If you spend even a millionth of a second in a queue, you may as well spend a million years in the queue.
Any epoch of your life - no matter how infinitesimal it may be - was wasted. In for a penny, in for a pound.
Oh, The Shame.
...and I wait. I wait for 20 minutes at that bar. Burly chaps (and let's face it, chapettes) writhe over and around me and promptly get served their drinks while I strain to make eye contact with the barmaids. Internally, Tech-Prog-Death-Metal man is turning up the volume. He's playing me some Mastodon. It's calling me home. One of my workmates slithers up beside me, enquiring as to how long it takes to get served in here (I was very, very aware of the time...) and literally turns her head and orders a drink. It's one of those fizzy blue tip-top waters they sell. Naturally, I ask how much one of those teeth-rotters would set me back. Three Pounds Ninety-Five Pence.
Suddenly, I was outside.
The Theoretical Underpinnings of the Aesthetics of Darren J. King: Chapter XIX - "Hometime and the Penances Therein."
When I reach a certain level of drunkeness, or if I am in an uncomfortable situation - my legs take me home. No questions. They move me along until they feel that I am in a position to fend for the whole package that is my body, alone. If / when this happens I do not tell my friends that it is happening. Ultimately, I like to do this with a great deal of stealth anyway. If you tell your friends that you are leaving a party they will attempt to convince you otherwise. Unacceptable. When I have regained control I usually send texts out to ensure that my friends know where I am and that I'm en route home. This disappearing act happens quite rarely. But when it does; I'm like Solid fucking Snake.
In this case, my mates where right behind me. I turned tail without a word and pressed through them. Traa' guys.
At this point I'm faced with prospect of getting home. An expensive endeavour. Another aspect of my psyche that fucks with me at this point is that I feel the need to punish myself for what I've done. It starts with my brain bestowing feelings of complete and utter shame upon itself for being so foolish. Principally, being so foolish with money. However, I need to get even more money out to pay for a taxi home. On average this costs around £25. This in turn makes me furious with myself for putting myself in such a shitty position - the rage is penance for my act of stupidity. Upon hopping into a taxi, I instructed the driver to drop me off in Neath; a 30 minute walk from where I live in Cimla. As further penance for my stupidity I make myself walk home in the freezing cold.
A blinding rage and sensory heat depravation seem to be a fitting tribute to 30 minutes on the tiles in Swansea. Within that 30 minute window I waxed an approximiate £40. That's more than my phone bill. That's a PS3 game. That's half a stompbox. That's a shame. A crying shame.
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