St George's Day
Never been much good at girls. Oh well, there is still time.

Cast your mind back to St George's day, this year. To celebrate, a few of us start drinking heavily in the last lecture of the day and by the time we get home I'm five cans of strongbow down and well on my way. As a general rule I despise clubbing, at least in clubs that play popular dance music, but to show willing I'd agreed to go to Oceana in Bristol that night.

So, by the time we actually arrive, I'm fairly wasted to the point where I'm generally anaesthetized to all the many ghastly aspects of the clubbing scene (Gosh, don't I sound fun?), and I'm actually quite enjoying myself. Somehow a friend manages to blag us into the vip area, where rumour has it there's a group of fhm high street honeyz for... well, no real reason I could ascertain, but lo, the rumours proved to be correct; sitting in a corner surrounded by some of the biggest, ugliest, unfriendliest men I've ever been to scared to look directly at, are three or four unbelievably beautiful girls. Not the kind of girl I tend to fantasize about, who mostly seem to wear labcoats (and not much else. Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm), but desperately attractive nevertheless. The room is almost lit up by their collective loveliness, all the more when contrasted with the underevolved malevolence of their heavies.

We stand around stupidly for a while, intimidating good looks and intimidating security forming a twofold barrier to going over and talking to them. Nevertheless, one of our friends approaches and, when we see he is neither dump tackled nor bursts into flames, a slow migration begins to that lustrous table.

To my surprise (although that probably reveals more about my own prejudices than anything else), the girls are not hard nosed, self-absorbed bitches, too good to talk to us, but to the contrary are incredibly friendly and down to earth. Despite my incredible drunkeness, the girls are not at all repulsed by my conversation, which is kind of new. I even get a high five. Confidence rocketing, I decide to engage is some low-level flirting.

'I'm in a band, you know,' I tell one of them.

She looks at me for a second, some emotion I can't quite fathom the nature of tugging at her lips and cheeks.

'That's nice.'
(WarneMarsh My priority for frivolity begets quality jollity, Sun 13 Dec 2009, 13:40, Reply)