genuinely nice guy who some woman would enjoy introducing to her mother over afternoon tea.
So tonight is four single blokes going out on the town. I do have happily married friends, but tonight is for single guys ‘looking for action’ as Dave puts it.
When I was at university, I used to go out of an evening with the aim of ‘pulling a bird’. I rarely (actually never but don’t tell my mates) succeeded. I haven’t needed to ‘pull’ for the last fifteen-plus years but I am sure that, come this evening, I will slip seamlessly back into the old routine of making a fool of myself on the dance floor and coming home alone. The only difference between now and fifteen years ago is that this time I am more than likely to fall asleepon a train on the way home and end up in Effingham Junction or some other godforsaken place.
If I am going to meet a new woman over the next six months, it won’t be on the dance floor. But I am going to go out anyway as Dave tells me I have got to put myself in the shop window.
Saturday 29 th March
So, do you really want to know what happened last night? Can I just tell you I made a fool of myself and leave it at that? No, I thought not. OK, we went for a few beers in the Raynes Park Tavern. I was fine with this bit of the evening. I held my own in the banter stakes and even managed to have a few quick conversations with women (‘four pints of lager please.’ ‘OK, coming right up’). Things went downhill rapidly though when we moved on to Wimbledon for part two of our evening’s entertainment.
I hadn’t been to a night club in years so I hadn’t even given a thought to dress codes. I had a row with the bouncer who told me I couldn’t come in wearing trainers.
‘They aren’t any old trainers, they’re fucking expensive trainers,’ I protested. Actually I would have been quite happy if the bouncer had sent me home but Dave slipped him a tenner and he let me in.
The club was as bad as I had feared it would be. The music was thump, thump, thump; the average age of the clientele was about fifteen (even with us there) and the strobe lighting did my head in. I know this is making me sound old but it is just the truth. Night clubs and I just do not mix.
I did my best to stay at the bar with Andy but even Andy ended up dancing. The traitor seriously let me down. EventuallyDave physically manhandled me on to the dance floor. Dave, Ray and Andy had managed to infiltrate a group of mature women out for a good night. I use the word infiltrate deliberately. To me the dance floor felt a bit like a war zone, with people parading their weapons, ready to engage the enemy at the slightest opportunity and eventually move in for the kill. I just worried I would be caught in the crossfire.
I did my best to wobble from foot to foot in time to the beat and once I had mastered that bit I even threw in the odd hip jerk or two.
Drinks came and went. Women came and went. Until eventually I looked around and realised to my horror that my mates were nowhere to be seen. They had deserted me. They should be shot. The woman dancing closest to me was looking at me with intense but slightly unfocussed eyes. To my untrained eye, her dancing was no better than mine. This bolstered my confidence further, to the extent that my dance moves became a bit more exaggerated. Suddenly I thought I was Tom Jones or Michael Jackson.
I was concentrating so much on my ‘moves’ and on the woman opposite me, who by this point looked like she was about to topple over, that I didn’t notice the ring of people encircling us. I was just about to move in for some hand to hand combat with the lovely drunk woman when Dave tapped me on the shoulder.
‘Mate, what the hell are you doing?’ he asked.
‘Piss off mate, I am in here,’ I replied, somewhat irritated at being thrown of my stride.
‘You’re fucking twerking. Men don’t twerk, especially fat blokes.’
It was at that point that I noticed the ring of
So tonight is four single blokes going out on the town. I do have happily married friends, but tonight is for single guys ‘looking for action’ as Dave puts it.
When I was at university, I used to go out of an evening with the aim of ‘pulling a bird’. I rarely (actually never but don’t tell my mates) succeeded. I haven’t needed to ‘pull’ for the last fifteen-plus years but I am sure that, come this evening, I will slip seamlessly back into the old routine of making a fool of myself on the dance floor and coming home alone. The only difference between now and fifteen years ago is that this time I am more than likely to fall asleepon a train on the way home and end up in Effingham Junction or some other godforsaken place.
If I am going to meet a new woman over the next six months, it won’t be on the dance floor. But I am going to go out anyway as Dave tells me I have got to put myself in the shop window.
Saturday 29 th March
So, do you really want to know what happened last night? Can I just tell you I made a fool of myself and leave it at that? No, I thought not. OK, we went for a few beers in the Raynes Park Tavern. I was fine with this bit of the evening. I held my own in the banter stakes and even managed to have a few quick conversations with women (‘four pints of lager please.’ ‘OK, coming right up’). Things went downhill rapidly though when we moved on to Wimbledon for part two of our evening’s entertainment.
I hadn’t been to a night club in years so I hadn’t even given a thought to dress codes. I had a row with the bouncer who told me I couldn’t come in wearing trainers.
‘They aren’t any old trainers, they’re fucking expensive trainers,’ I protested. Actually I would have been quite happy if the bouncer had sent me home but Dave slipped him a tenner and he let me in.
The club was as bad as I had feared it would be. The music was thump, thump, thump; the average age of the clientele was about fifteen (even with us there) and the strobe lighting did my head in. I know this is making me sound old but it is just the truth. Night clubs and I just do not mix.
I did my best to stay at the bar with Andy but even Andy ended up dancing. The traitor seriously let me down. EventuallyDave physically manhandled me on to the dance floor. Dave, Ray and Andy had managed to infiltrate a group of mature women out for a good night. I use the word infiltrate deliberately. To me the dance floor felt a bit like a war zone, with people parading their weapons, ready to engage the enemy at the slightest opportunity and eventually move in for the kill. I just worried I would be caught in the crossfire.
I did my best to wobble from foot to foot in time to the beat and once I had mastered that bit I even threw in the odd hip jerk or two.
Drinks came and went. Women came and went. Until eventually I looked around and realised to my horror that my mates were nowhere to be seen. They had deserted me. They should be shot. The woman dancing closest to me was looking at me with intense but slightly unfocussed eyes. To my untrained eye, her dancing was no better than mine. This bolstered my confidence further, to the extent that my dance moves became a bit more exaggerated. Suddenly I thought I was Tom Jones or Michael Jackson.
I was concentrating so much on my ‘moves’ and on the woman opposite me, who by this point looked like she was about to topple over, that I didn’t notice the ring of people encircling us. I was just about to move in for some hand to hand combat with the lovely drunk woman when Dave tapped me on the shoulder.
‘Mate, what the hell are you doing?’ he asked.
‘Piss off mate, I am in here,’ I replied, somewhat irritated at being thrown of my stride.
‘You’re fucking twerking. Men don’t twerk, especially fat blokes.’
It was at that point that I noticed the ring of
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