I doon't smooke da reefa!
Long ago, before PJM became the resting pulse obsessed gym-junkie he is today (forty nine bpm, as measured on Friday night), PJM put much effort into pursuing as hedonistic a lifestyle as finances and a self imposed embargo of mind altering chemical substances would allow.

As I have mentioned in previous posts, several summer holidays during my college years were spent in a pleasant boozy haze of bars, clubs and teenage parties habitually not getting much in the way of lady-action.

September 1993, some McJob colleagues of mine threw a farewell bash for those of us departing to universities anew. The venue of the farewell bash was a large suburban home of a private schoolgirl we knew, with parents who spoke with cultured, home county tones yet had obviously enjoyed the halcyon days of the late 1960s enough to let everyone be and seemed to tacitly approve of the potential tomfoolery as thirty five teenagers indulged new found vices. One by one we turned up, raggedly dressed in the self consciously fringe garb of the day with tee shirts bearing the names of obscure alternative rock bands in a what appeared to be a gauche contest of niche music one upmanship.

By eight o clock, I was happy drunk and was engaged in conversation with a young (but very legal) blonde lady who appeared to be enjoying my conversation if the amount of coquettish smiles and sideways facing arm touching was anything to go by. We laughed, joked, talked about our hopes for the future (the prediction that I would be running the country by the time of my 30th birthday did not come to pass, sadly. 30 was yeeeeeeears away). It was at that party I decided that writing was to play a big part in my life henceforth.

Although the steady and relentless sipping of beer had not yet taken its toll on my head, my bladder was signalling that the tub was full at this point, so I politley excused myself in the direction of the bathroom.

I returned twenty minutes later, having been engaged in conversation with several new arrivals on the way to find that someone had parked in my space. Said girl was hanging off the arm of an unkempt skater boi type, clad in a Levellers tee. Bah. Foiled again!

Such instances were hardly rare, I seemed to regularly make significant gains in the early stages of the campaign to be thwarted by unforseen and farcical circumstance before either phone numbers or spit were exchanged. However, this being a farewell do I can safely say I was a tad miffed at the fact that the powers of fate decreed that I'd fall flat on my face at the eleventh hour yet again.

Grumpily, I wandered out of the downstairs sitting room and headed for the garden via the cellar and reached for some meagre consolation. I retrieved a rather phat one from my shirt pocket, which had been carefully prerolled. I walked to the end of the garden, lay on my back on the top of a wall and alternated between sips of Castlemaine and puffs on the joint. I stared transfixed by the stars in the late summer sky, noting that the recent appearence of Orion was the harbinger of Autumn and metaphorically speaking, pointing toward pastures new, for a few weeks hence I'd be in a new town with new people propping up unfamiliar bars. Perhaps then fate would ordain a more satisfactory run of lady luck.

I must have lay there for some forty minutes, tracing the stars and puffing. Unfortunately the dark arts of smoking weed were a very new experience for me, a little smoke went a very long way so I became aware I was a tad disconnected with my surroundings when I felt myself having to stifle a giggle as my finger traced the outline of a large knob while playing celestial join-the-dots. Feeling slightly perceptually challenged, I clambered awkwardly down from the wall. I pushed my way through the shrubbery and made for the cellar to retrieve another yellow can of Castlemaine.

Whoa. What. The. Fuck...?

Six feet from my right side appeared to be a pale, vaugely familiar shape in the moonlight. In a moment of comedic double take, I stared intently at what appeared to be a pale blue lit arse hovering some inches above the ground and quivering slightly. Further concentration in the moonlight revealed that the arse was balanced atop a pair of dark blue denim clad legs and a Levellers tee.

The realisation of the identity of the lady-arse's owner came in a rush. My brain was slowed by the THC in my system. I blushed and scuttled away guiltily, with a dastardly plan formulating in my head.

I should be ashamed for what happened next. Instead of leaving the courting couple be, I snuck into the lounge, summoned as many partygoers as possible around me and we crept outside and erupted into spontaneous applause in the direction of the alfresco sex show.

Credit where it's due, they carried on without missing a beat.

The next morning, sober and up with the larks I'm helping the hostess's mother clear up the debris. I couldn't help but stifle a smirk as I scrape the battered broom across the buttock prints in the dusty concrete. The debris, dust and the remnants of my spliff ended up being swept into a dustpan, like the memories of the party.
(Bicycle Repairman "you're also a bit of a wanker", Thu 20 Mar 2008, 17:49, Reply)