Wild nights and white powder

Posted on May 20, 2012


Saving Grace

Never start at the beginning, that’s what I have been taught by my good friend Paul Dorset (A.K.A John Cox), Author of New Blood, Xannu and many other titles, and may I say a ‘man of such wisdom’… And sooh I will begin at the point where after many years of avoiding socialising on a modern-day normal scale I had suddenly been catapulted into it by friends with good intentions, desperately seeking to retrieve me from a nightmare of a marriage breakdown…

Hence, I am standing at the bar mentally repeating my order over and over in my head. It’s almost like being 15 again…yes 15, no-one out there can truly admit to playing by the rules, can they? Only worryingly the night is still young, yet I have this guy flexing his muscles and blinding me with his whiter than white toothy smile… God give me strength, and a real man please… Essex boys, though understandably gorgeous are just not my thing! Not that this one is an Essex guy, I’m in Wales but he is doing a darned good impression of being brainless and beautiful…

The last time I was in a pub as a single lady, I smoked!!! Can you believe it? I thought I was so blatantly cool, my aura of sophistication being the cancer stick and repulsive odour repellant I held between two fingers. Not so cool, I never could take it down, hey and no wise cracks please… It held me in good stead for my cannabis smoking days which never had an effect, so oddly enough!

I could have so done with a cigarette tonight, something to focus my hands on and maybe given me a profile… Being the ‘Mrs’ of someone for so long, kind of strips you of your identity no matter how much you intend to retain it! But hey, the music was blasting, Labyrinth to be precise, everyone around me was convincingly under the influence (of what… I was later to discover) and I wanted so desperately to belong.

My girlfriends were mooching away in their seats and you know suddenly all I wanted to do was find a hairy biker and blast off along a winding and climbing road. Just as I had done all those years before. You may think the worst but I used to have real good connections and no matter which stray biker I hitched a ride with, they wouldn’t lay a finger on me once they realised my links.

It wasnt to be, so instead I drank like the others and swayed my hips to the beat of the night whilst fully aware of the interest Id gained. Let’s not shy away from the fact that women are so much better at realising interest from the opposite sex. A few guys with almost personalities entertained me with their wise cracks and fine choice in music and some habits really do die-hard as I once again regaled them with stories of me having been a pole-dancer (lager induced of course!) Well, needless to say their eyes exploded into life - like the most elaborate 5th November display and boy was I Queen Bee! Daggers of raw jealousy were emanating from my friends and unleashed in my direction.

I guess this was the time when I finally accepted those Misti days of old were well and truly gone, because the notion of escaping through a tiny and way too high-up toilet window was no longer an option. So, me being blonde and drunk I discreetly informed them that I was not really their style as I may have been a pole-dancer but it was in a gay bar! I did tell you I was well oiled, and of course unbeknown to me in my current state it was enough to ignite that male testosterone, their eyes whirling like the fruits of an old one-armed bandit!

Bugger, now my male crowd had grown. I was not only new talent but a lesbian pole dancer too! My girlfriends concern had transformed to total and absolute blatant jealousy. Well can you blame them, they had been working for months on snaring the same guys that were knee-deep in my well created and explicit stories. I escaped to the ladies, alone I might add and was stunned to burst in on two very beautiful young girls snorting white powder up their delicate noses. Instantly sober, I took a short-cut and exited through the fire escape to where gathered the pavement smokers. A pathetic bedraggled teenager sat legs splayed on the curb vomiting for dear life, whilst all around ignored her. Sweeping back her hair, I offered her a tissue and bravely battling eau de puke, I waited until her wrenching subsided before loading her into a cab and sending her home to parents whom would be either devastated or uncaring…

No my night was not over, I battled to escape the crowds gathering around an extremely intoxicated couple who were beating ten bells out of one another whilst onlookers jeered them on. God was this what I had been missing out on? Earlier I had marvelled at how everyone appeared so beautiful, obviously with the help of fake-tans, hair extensions, in fact lets just be totally honest…fake everything including personalities that like genie’s from a lamp evolved but through a haze of white powder…

A short-cut led me onto a riverbank pathway and I rather quickly stumbled upon my catch of the night, quite literally! Balancing on one foot whilst trying to remove my stiletto is not quite as easy as it sounds not after several lagers anyhow… A choice swear word resonated from a dark shadow sat hunched upon the banking, which in turn made my sway almost turn into a full-scale tumble had it not been for this grouchy individual minding his own business, fishing rod in hand and Welsh blonde almost in lap! Turns out he wasn’t really grouchy, because half an hour later he had not only shared his cheese and pickle sandwiches with me but his cocoa and life story too. I had so much fun attempting to cast my line into the river…yes, here I was on my apparent night out fishing! Picture it, Misti dressed to the nines in a rather elegant River Island Bodycon dress, or for you guys out there a figure-hugging number, now finely endorsed with mud and grass stains. My feet were black and my mood was jubilant! I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had so much fun…

Clive was a real sort, teasing me unmercifully for falling for him on the river bank! And so obviously I proclaimed it to have been a well planned military like tactical manoeuvre preserved for any eligible bachelors. My humour however missed its target, he looked away from me and then stunned me. In 1951 Clive had been a soldier in the lead up to the 1956 Suez conflict. Two fresh-faced and spotty teenagers had been conscripted for National Service, best friends since childhood they had seen it as an absolute adventure. This was soon to be turned on its tail, hungry and suffering from regular bouts of sickness their moral deserted them. Also untrained as they were in anti-terrorism fighting many of his comrades fell pray to attacks from the Egyptians. A favoured means of attack was the use of a high-wire targeting many a despatch motorcyclist or driver of the often used open top jeeps, decapitation was inevitable. This quietly spoken gentleman sat next to me, held the weight of the world in his hands. His friend had been abducted from camp during the night and torture and death had befallen him. So angry and confused by what he was then living Clive had given up on his ambition of becoming a teacher and continued to serve in the forces, until he had retired.

I walked back with Clive to the end of his street and yes guys, I gave him a kiss goodnight…on the cheek of course. What started out as a night of image conscious fools desperately seeking an alcohol or drug fix to satisfy their quest for a Saturday night thrill, ended in me meeting a fine gentleman who will continue to be my friend, regardless of my lack of fake accessories or appetite for white powder…

Misti:

I walked back with Clive to the end of his street and yes guys, I gave him a kiss goodnight…on the cheek of course. What started out as a night of image conscious fools desperately seeking an alcohol or drug fix to satisfy their quest for a Saturday night thrill, ended in me meeting a fine gentleman who will continue to be my friend, regardless of my lack of fake accessories or appetite for white powder…

Those really are the best of times ... at least I think they are. Somehow those unexpected intersections of two lives make far more of an impact than all the white powder and artificiality on the planet. I've never met anyone in a bar that stayed a friend. Cheap thrills and expendable memories are the name of the game, but Clive will stick with you for the rest of your life.