It was one of those nights last night: where your friend assures you there’s a free gig in Brixton that’s worth leaving your cosy bed for. You agree to ‘prinks’ at his halls, which though fun, is on the other side of London. Then you end up spending about an hour getting the wrong train (pretty much past where you started) and walking aimlessly through residential areas until you stumble upon a run down pub and he exclaims, “this is it!”.
When you go in, there’s a stage with no band on it and ‘that guy’ your friend knows isn’t here and isn’t answering his phone (of course). So basically you’re just in a shitty pub miles away from home for no apparent reason. You neck a beer and quickly need to use the toilette, where you discover some pretty good graffiti to read while you empty your bladder:
Classic rhyming and a solid message there; very reminiscent of that t shirt you had from Pilot when you were about 12 that said ‘make love not war’. You emerge, stumbling slightly from the top up booze you bought from Sainsburys on the way, and sit down with your friends, who by this point are melting wax on the flame of a candle to entertain themselves. Quick smoke break…
… Then you decide to leave, and march down Brixton high street in the hope of finding somewhere that will somehow fill your empty soul. You’re just about to call it quits and hop on the 88 when in the distance something emerges… Another shitty pub!
You enter to the sound of maudlin 40 year olds taking advantage of an open mic night to pour out their post post adolescent angst about their failed marriage and how much their children hate them. You sit on a sofa in the corner feeling nauseous (alcohol induced, but there’s probably some existential anxiety in there too) and a forty year old with two kids chats up that friend who looks like, totes old, what with his beard and all. One last drink, a top up from behind the bar while the bar tender isn’t looking to feel bad as fuck, and you’re ready to head off.
And now comes the best bit of the night…
Cheesy chips with dat sweet BBQ sauce to slurp off your fingers while sat on the ground waiting for the bus to deposit you at least within walking distance of your tiny, messy, so-studenty-it-hurts hellhole of a bedroom. You eventually get home and have a spliff, despite having loudly declared that you’d ‘quit weed’ cos you didn’t enjoy all of that paranoid anxiety. But drunk you pays no heed, and you end up passed out in your bed, waking up with yesterday’s make up smeared across your face like the unintentional clown that you are.
And now here you are, writing a fucking blog post about it.