Saturday 14th October
Clinging on
I’m sitting next to the pool table in Top Gun enjoying a riveting game of pool (and an equally riveting group of Indramayu’s finest at the next table), when into the bar staggers one of the older Blok M regulars who’s clearly had a skinful and a half. I desperately try to blend into the background, but he spies me in the distance and his watery eyes light up. Breaking into a broad grin he weaves his unsteady way to where I’m sitting. Shaking me vigorously by the hand he slurs out “I’m on the piss! Am I on the piss!”, and wanders off in search of others to whom he may impart his moment of self-revelation.
After my customary ten minutes of dire humiliation at the pool table, I wander down the bar to see who’s around. As I swing round a pillar a blur of red shirt and waving arms accosts me, and – like a broken record – off he goes again: “I’m on the piss! Boy, I’m on the piss tonight!” “You certainly are”, is the most diplomatic reply that I can dredge up as I break away from his manic stare and edge myself behind a group of girls who are working out their plan of attack for the evening.
Gravitating to the main bar area I stand to one side of the pool table so as to better view the field and see which of my favourite Sweet Young Things have turned up. There are quite a few, so I take my bearings and work out a route that will take me past as many of them as possible in the shortest time. But just as I’m about to put this battle plan into action a firm hand clenches my shoulder and a beery voice blares out – “I’m on the piss! Did I tell yers that I’m on the piss?” Ever tactful I quip back “You most certainly did!”, and with an apologetic gesture break away and head for the happy hunting ground at the main bar.
After a pleasant reconnaissance in which I renew acquaintance and work out which of them might be interested in assisting the Reveller in his late-night fieldwork, I see my old friend wandering from table to table, greeting the girls with exaggerated courtesy and gentlemanly politeness – and no doubt telling each of them “I’m on the piss tonight”.
As I sit down at my regular spot a little later in My Bar, I reflect that it’s guys like him who give the bars a bit of character and atmosphere. Harmless and inoffensive, he’s enjoying himself, hurting no-one, and providing a little gentle amusement. “Salt of the earth”, I muse as I gratefully take the proffered bottle of ale from a smiling barman. But even while I’m thinking it’s a relief not to be collared again by this latter-day Ancient Mariner, as I down a thirst-slaking draught I catch a distant voice from a figure further down the bar who’s obscured by the crowd – “By ‘eck, I’m on the piss tonight!”
The Id is coming, and so – hope the girls – are the guys. Desperation mounts as the days fly by, and some of the Sweet Young Things are seriously worried that they’ll not have enough money to pay for that piggy-bank emptying visit to the the faraway family. As a wounded animal is at its most dangerous, a skint Sweet Young Thing is at its most predatory.
So it is that I’m a little wary as I position myself for the evening’s fray, and make sure that I’ve got two bolt holes in case thing get too sticky. But for one fatal moment my guard is down and a Svelte Young Thing of distant acquaintance slides alongside and greets me rather demurely. No hassle, no hustle, just a pleasant smile and a sparkling eye. Forgetting that thus it was with Samson and Delilah, I drop my defences and invite her to sit down next to me. After a few minutes’ chatting she touches me on the arm, which is an innocent enough gesture in this culture. But each touch lingers just a little longer, and there’s just a hint of pressure before the hand is removed.
Alas, I reciprocate and touch her on the arm to innocently emphasise a point I’m making, and suddenly find that my hand is unable to withdraw as there is another hand on top of it – a determined hand, a sensuous hand, a naughty hand. Seconds later I’m in deep water and reciprocating with a rather less than Platonic intent. After a few delicious moments of innocent dalliance she slides into my lap and wraps her arms around me in a most decidedly un-Platonic fashion.
Now she’s got what it takes where it matters, and I’m soon completely entangled. Throwing caution and my earlier firm resolve to the wind, I get into the spirit of the thing and am soon giving as good as I’m getting. One of my old acquaintances at the bar gives me a sorrowful and a knowing look, as if to say “Here’s another fine mess you’ve gotten yourself into!” He knows my little weaknesses, and where this will all end. And so does she. And so it does.
Here’s the story. My Bar and Top Gun played a rather silly (and very expensive) game of chicken last night. Neither feels the urge to close their doors at 2 am as there are still customers coming and going, and neither wants to be first to shut up shop for fear the other will snatch their trade.
So the dozy buggers keep going until 3 am, when a platoon of plods and their Candid Camera crew trundle down the street, march into My Bar and set up shop. The raid is not official (they need a senior police officer’s letter of authorisation for any intrusion), but who’s going to argue about legal niceties like that when caught with their trousers down?
The two bars get what they deserve, but they’ve pissed in the soup for all of us. Anything that raises awareness of the Blok in a negative way can only have unfortunate (and costly) consequences down the road. “Geese and golden eggs” I reflect, and sadly ponder the follies and weaknesses to which all flesh is prone.
