Romeo and Juliet eat your heart out
My best friend Rosie and I had gone out for drinks after work.

This sounds as though it could have been us sipping cocktails in a sophisticated London bar, after a day of meetings, manicures and yah-ing into our mobile phones, swishing our perfectly coiffed hair about the place and looking every inch as if we'd stepped out of a Cosmo fashion shoot, and if it was, this story would be much, much different. As it was we were between terms at university, working our grubby little fingers to the bone in the conference centre catering department.

We spent that summer being hot, sweaty, and pickled in cheap vodka whenever we weren’t working any of our regular 60 hours a week.

So, out for drinks after work meant we put on clean clothes and some mascara, and headed to our local. Once inside we avoided touching the walls and doors or indeed looking at anyone.

We headed to the corner and sat down, carefully not leaning on the table lest we stuck to it, and not leaving our feet in one position on the carpet for too long in case we stuck to that too*.

That night we happened to meet Rosie’s cousin Big Daft Richard and Big Daft Richard’s friend Simon in the pub. It must have been a Friday as Simon was a vision of crisp Ben Sherman, too much hair gel and a lovely thick Potteries accent to go with his slightly vacant expression. But at least he was clean.

The boys' plan was to go to Valentinos** and look for easy ladies who were wearing boob tubes. Our plan was to stay in the pub and not go to Valentino’s to be the sort of easy ladies wearing boob tubes they were looking for. However, our plan backfired as they decided*** that we and the pub were much more fun. Rosie and I, hardened by days of drinking Tesco value spirits, easily held our own as Big Daft Richard and Simon sank pint after pint.

Eventually, after an evening of Richard and Simon working their way through several vats of cheap fizzy piss, they went outside for yet another cigarette, leaving Rosie and me in full animated discussion**** and oblivious to their absence.

Then, suddenly, rolling towards us like a sack of mad pigs on stilts, was Big Daft Richard. He crumpled onto the chair next to mine, put his enormous ham-like arm round my shoulders and slurred, in his best Stoke voice, “Simon’s been sick in the car park, but he wants to know will you have him a date.”

Not wanting to speak through the beery fug, I wrinkled my nose in a “no, sorry” expression of mute distaste and shook my head.

And they say romance is dead.


*quick getaways were frequently necessary
** “nightclub” in Hanley and the cultural hub infamous chav hunting ground in North Staffordshire
*** were incapable of moving after 7 pints
****overexcited squealing and gossiping about everyone we knew from work
(happylittletulip helpless and delicious, Sat 30 Aug 2008, 11:42, 4 replies)

Mad pigs on stilts for the win
I like this!
( PopePollo defloculating the soup of the surreal, Sat 30 Aug 2008, 12:38, closed)

You turned this charmer down?
Crazy girl, crazy I tells ya ,)
( fuck shit up the best you never had, Sat 30 Aug 2008, 22:36, closed)

the man of so many girls' dreams ...
and you turned him down?

*click*
(TheWeeWitch hasn't been here much recently .., Sun 31 Aug 2008, 12:19, closed)

Thank God ...
... I left staffs uni before having to spend a year living in stoke and going to hanley (or preferably newcastle) for my nights out. You poor sod for having to spend time there!
( MadAdamUk was last alive on, Mon 1 Sep 2008, 11:47, closed)