Yesterday was destined to be eventful. Having successfully traversed ice-strewn roads and pavements into town without embarrassment, I held open a door for Clive James, who thanked me and is therefore now a very great friend of mine; and I also bought some shoes. Not proper shoes, obviously, those are for grown-ups. Whatever, these factors heralded an exciting day.
And so it proved. Last night up the pub was busy and cramped. I was standing on the edge of the dance floor chatting to Steve when a very drunken, very shrunken lady of mature years took a shine to him. She had rather obviously been enjoying a few more dry sherries than strictly necessary on such an evening and she quickly had her arms round his midriff (it’s as high as she could go) attempting a cuddle.
Steve resisted gently but was resigned to his fate, saying that she did this often. And a few moments later she had moved on; or rather bounced on, rebounding off various dancers like a pinball until careering into her next prey, a startled young gentleman. He danced with her for a while, attempting to keep her at arm’s length, before escaping into the sea of people surrounding the dance floor.
The cycle repeated: unwanted cuddles, random dancing, and presumably more sherry. The startled boy had another helping, and received a ribbing from his mates for his trouble.
And then, a few moments later: BANG. I turn, and she’s flat on her back, having fallen over and slammed her head on the floor.
Some people fuss over her. The ladybouncer on the door signalled to DJ James to cut the music. An ambulance was called. And Steve said to me, “She does this all the time. She’ll get up in a minute.”
And she did, just as the ambulance arrived. With ladybouncer help she tottered outside where the very nice paramedic checked her over. I didn’t see what happened next, but I suspect she was given a lift home courtesy of the Ambulance Service, and woke up this morning with head sore in several places.
Also present at the pub last night were: Ernst Stavro Blofeld in drag, as portrayed in Diamonds Are Forever (or at least the spitting image thereof, and the least convincing tranny since); and someone who – paraphrasing the great Charlie Brooker – I could describe only as Posh Spice as drawn by a blind lunatic.