Wednesday, July 30, 2003

Happiness is a worn pun

It all seems hazy and sepia-tinged like a old war documentary! Sit back and let me take you back in time through the medium of a poorly-punctuated weblog.

Friday night was a punishing night for my poor old liver. I finished work at half-five as normal, and I had to get a taxi home. I needed to eat and get ready to go out in one hour. This was going to be pushing it, and as eating was a purely beer-soaking measure it had to be a McDonalds. One Big Mac and a change of clothes later I am ready, the question was, 'is Shrewsbury ready for me?'. I got the train with Rob and we were there in no time. A walk down the riverside to meet up in the Shrewsbury Hotel followed. Its a Wetherspoons pub, with bland pints and interiors (not as striking as the chain's pubs in Stafford or Aber), but it is as inexpensive. My 60-second Big Mac was giving me a few reminders, so I took it fairly steady early doors.

When everyone had arrived (I think there was nine of us in all) we meandered like the Severn itself towards 'The Bedroom', a ghastly establishment buckling under its own sense of trendiness (if it were a Radio One DJ it'd be a cross between Jo Whiley and Dave Pearce, get me?). It was standing room only at the pokey bar at the front, and it was full upstairs where the seating (and bedding) was, and a neck-tied meathead was ensuring it was strictly one-down one-up. When I went to the toilet I had to walk through the downstairs dance-floor, which was like the second-class area, with seats arranged around the wall giving it a school disco feel (and not the oh-so-fashionable post-club culture school disco type neither). We left soon.

As the only other Shrewsbury resident, it was James' turn to pick the next drinking establishment. He had been expressing his unfavourable views on the trendy pub-clubs and their conversation-stifling music and mortgage-straining prices of weak, fizzy lager. So I was looking forward to his choice, to see the reactions of the others as much as anything. Well even I thought the Old Salopian was a bit of an eyeopener. Shit! It made the Crown look like the lounge-room of the Savoy. But the beer was alright, so I was happy. I decided to have a butcher's at the jukebox, which turned out to be the private record collection of Tommy Vance's even harder rocking brother. I did finally find a Clash track however and inserted my sweaty silvers. We left before it came on.

Rock on!

From there it was time to dance. So we headed off towards the impossibly exotic-sounding Club Med. However it seemed as if everyone was seduced by the idea of the temperate laid-back environs of southern Europe, and the queue was the length of the Greek coast-line, so it was off next door to Flares instead. Hah, now this is a good 'un, it is a seventies-themed club, complete with wigs, moustaches and a typically one-eyed view of the pop-cultures of an entire decade. Groovy baby, as I'm sure only people who got beaten-up often would have said in the aforementioned decade. My McIndigestion had finally worn off, and I must admit, I hammered the bar constantly. It got a little fuzzy after that. The next thing I remember is lying in a sleeping-bag on a sofa muttering "where am I?" at ten the next morning. I was at James' parents house it turned out. I came home on the train and slept most of the rest of the weekend.

On Monday I started my new role at work. For two weeks of every month I am working in the tax department doing accounts. I know nothing of accounts, so it is a steep learning curve (I couldn't balance one particular report by the not inconsiderable sum of 20 grand... oops!). I am quite enjoying it in a way, obviously it is quite dizzying when you've been doing the same things for three years and then suddenly its all new jobs and new clients and new skills. I suppose it is better than trying to look busy reading the sports news and waiting for 5:30 every day.

This week I have been mostly listening to: Bob Dylan, Super Furry Animals and the Manic Street Preachers.

I seemed to be coming down with a cold on Monday, and that night I was grumpy and tired and generally felt shitty. Tuesday I was a bit snotty, but I hadn't got the headache, and today I'm fine. A one-day cold, strange eh? Perhaps the alcohol in my blood means my immune system is always up for a fight.