Hmm, a short update now I seen myself naked. I thought I was safe having KOed in the kitchen, yet I seem to have what looks like my name written across my right breast, as well as a crude drawing of a monkey fingering someone up the ass on my back. I have no recollection of this happening, so it must have been while I slept.
Nevertheless, I have inspected all my body hair, and seeing as I have seemed to retain it all, I consider myself not only lucky, but also strangely accepted.
Sunday, 11 April 2010
So, I've not really used this, but I need to jot down the events of the previous evening. Partly I can't be bothered to repeatedly tell the story over and over again, but mostly I suspect that what little I can remember I'm likely to forget in the near future.
Let's start with The Skinhead, the one I've been trying to score milk from. He doesn't exist - if you know what I'm talking about, you've probably already guessed that, but A skinhead is going to crop up in a second, and this one is real.
A bit more background: At 4am, all I crave, above all other things, is MILK. Semi skimmed, a pint thereof. And I never seem to have any. And usually I can't be arsed to walk the 45 minute or so round trip to get some. In fact, last night was the first time the craving overcame drunken laziness, and I tripped out of my flat at about 4.30 to go to the 24 hour shop.
Hang on, I should set the scene a bit - just assume it was a typical Saturday night: went out, had too many drinks, jaegerbombs etc. The night stepped up a wee bit when we had Black Velvets to celebrate Bismarck's birthday (only 10 days late - pretty good for me). And then the inevitable 2am crash. "Shall we go to a club?" "Nah, can't be arsed". So the three old men that we are all stumbled home in our separate directions, looking forward to a cup of cocoa and a good nights kip. For me though, it was not to be....
So I'm a stumblywumbling up the street to the 24 shop, when out of no where appears this skinhead (this is the real one I mentioned earlier):
"Hemmin!"
He shouts at me, and I literally crap my pants.
"Kusmar! Fucking hell man, it's been fucking 10 years mate!"
Much to my surprise, I went to school with this geezer. A wee bit of banter ensues, that standard 4am/drunk/not seen each other since school/what you doing now etc etc. Turns out he's doing something in oil, I can't remember what. He seems interested in the whole Oddbins job thing (likes his whiskey it seems).
Anyway, this conversation is DULL. I never liked him at school, in fact we barely spoke, and anyway, I WANT MILK! So I try to extract myself from the conversation:
"Listen mate, it's been great seeing you, but I need to shoot off"
"Where the fuck you shooting off to at 4am, Kus?!"
Uhhh.
So I'm drunk right?
So I really can't think of a good answer.
So I just tell him the truth.
I'm addicted to milk.
He listens to my ranting about how far the 24 shop is, and that I wished there was a skinhead (that's the imaginary one) at the end of my street punting whores, crack, and dairy. He just looks at me really oddly, like I'm a nutcase (which I obviously am, and I know I am, but I can't stop ranting until he finds something about it funny right? So I can then pretend that's the end of the story and leave).
Then I run out of bollocks. And there's a long pause. And I end up with something fannyish like:
"So yeah, that's about the size of it"
And he looks at me a little longer, and I start to think it's a look of threat. My drunk brain suddenly says "HE IS GOING TO KILL YOU, YOU FUCKING RAMBLING IDIOT".
Then he laughs! A long hearty belly laugh, I've never felt so relieved (he's obviously hammered too by the way). He says he'd "forgotten how funny I was" - cute, but we still didn't get on at school - and asks if I want to go up to his mate's house. I'm vastly dubious - why do I want to anywhere with this odd geezer who finds stories about milk addiction funny? But my one single legitmate excuse "I need milk" is batted back at me - "Kus, there'll be plenty of milk at this party, trust me".
Retrospectively, an odd thing to say. I wonder now if "milk" is a code word for something else. At the time though, I was drunk, and not really thinking, and we all do dumb things when drunk right? So I said okay.
And we walk
and walk
and walk
And we rock up to Rubislaw Den North. Turns out this party is in a fucking mansion in the richest part of the west end. The dude who lives there, he's about our age, he claims to have a job of some sort, but is cagey about exactly what it is ("he does fuck all" my associate informs me on the way). About 7 years ago his parents said "Alright son, we're bored of Aberdeen - we're off to Spain. One of us will come home when the other dies - look after the house till then".
The place was mad - it was like something out of the OC, or some other bad American show about folk who have more money than sence and no responsibilities. The living room alone was bigger than my entire flat, and when we first enter it's got about 40 folk dancing in it. The walls must be sound proofed, because outside the house I couldn't hear the HORRENDOUSLY LOUD TECHNO music that is now virtually shaking my bollocks off. The skinhead peels off leaving me like a tit in a room full of folk who are probably more sober than me, but far further gone in any other repect you care to mention.
"Fuck this" I thought - I'm being to realise this was foolish and I think this is a good time to escape. Toilet first though. So I sneak through the house looking for a likely bog. Failure. What I find instead is the kitchen. It's got about 20 folk in it, and straight away I feel a little more at home. Through the haze of cigarette smoke, I see wine bottles, I see wine glasses, I see people holding both. This is a good sign.
Someone says hello to me, and soon I've introduced myself to everyone. My job crops up again, and a lot of people seem genuinely interested in my wine knowledge. "This is awesome" I think to myself. Time ticks on, drinks flow, and I really starting to enjoy myself. I can afford to spend a wee bit of time observing things around me. For a start, there are A LOT OF DRUGS. There seems to be some sort of infinite supply of coke being dispensed from near the kitchen table (where it turns out our host is sat, dishing out the stuff). I refrain when offered, as I'm quickly progressing back from "sobering" to "steamboats". And this is where things start to get seriously hazy.
I remember chatting to a rather attractive girl about giraffes, and something about high end Burgundy, and I remember we both found it hilarious, but I have no idea what the connection was.
I remember there was a lass, dressed... um... dubiously, who kept disappearing upstairs with various gentlemen, only to return 15-20 minutes later. I would feel I was disrespecting her by suggesting she might have been a prostitute, but seeing as she'll never read this I will: She almost certainly WAS a prostitute.
After sometime things quiten down - the rave crew are still going, albeit a reduced figure. The kitchen lot "retire to the drawing room" (you couldn't make this shit up), and folk start to KO. The coke users are still going though, and everytime someone falls asleep they're doing mean stuff to them. They've already located a dude snoring in the upstairs loo, and he's now got red hair (that's not me by the way), a tall lass now has distinctly shorter hair than she had before, and several lads have swapped shirts and all their boots are tied together. Childish stuff I admit, but pretty funny at the time. It was somewhere about this point that we all decided it would be cool to dye my hair red (I thought the dude on the bathroom floor looked pretty cool, although they'd dyed quite a lot of the tiling at the same time, and it looked like he might have been murdered). Soon after which, in an act that will be enternally burnt onto the inside of my mind, three girls stripped a sleeping man BUTT NAKED, and shaved every inch of his body. I will never EVER forget them wedging his cheeks apart and shaving his crack. Urk.
But that's about it for remembering. Somehow, a couple of us ended up back in the kitchen, where I woke up not very many hours later to a girl, whose name now escapes me, offering me a cup.
"Coffee?" I asked hopefully
"Southern C and Coke"
"Awesome" I thought.
And I stumblywumblied home, finding on my way a scrap of paper in my pocket with the dude's house number, and the date of his next shindig on it! Sweet!
Let's start with The Skinhead, the one I've been trying to score milk from. He doesn't exist - if you know what I'm talking about, you've probably already guessed that, but A skinhead is going to crop up in a second, and this one is real.
A bit more background: At 4am, all I crave, above all other things, is MILK. Semi skimmed, a pint thereof. And I never seem to have any. And usually I can't be arsed to walk the 45 minute or so round trip to get some. In fact, last night was the first time the craving overcame drunken laziness, and I tripped out of my flat at about 4.30 to go to the 24 hour shop.
Hang on, I should set the scene a bit - just assume it was a typical Saturday night: went out, had too many drinks, jaegerbombs etc. The night stepped up a wee bit when we had Black Velvets to celebrate Bismarck's birthday (only 10 days late - pretty good for me). And then the inevitable 2am crash. "Shall we go to a club?" "Nah, can't be arsed". So the three old men that we are all stumbled home in our separate directions, looking forward to a cup of cocoa and a good nights kip. For me though, it was not to be....
So I'm a stumblywumbling up the street to the 24 shop, when out of no where appears this skinhead (this is the real one I mentioned earlier):
"Hemmin!"
He shouts at me, and I literally crap my pants.
"Kusmar! Fucking hell man, it's been fucking 10 years mate!"
Much to my surprise, I went to school with this geezer. A wee bit of banter ensues, that standard 4am/drunk/not seen each other since school/what you doing now etc etc. Turns out he's doing something in oil, I can't remember what. He seems interested in the whole Oddbins job thing (likes his whiskey it seems).
Anyway, this conversation is DULL. I never liked him at school, in fact we barely spoke, and anyway, I WANT MILK! So I try to extract myself from the conversation:
"Listen mate, it's been great seeing you, but I need to shoot off"
"Where the fuck you shooting off to at 4am, Kus?!"
Uhhh.
So I'm drunk right?
So I really can't think of a good answer.
So I just tell him the truth.
I'm addicted to milk.
He listens to my ranting about how far the 24 shop is, and that I wished there was a skinhead (that's the imaginary one) at the end of my street punting whores, crack, and dairy. He just looks at me really oddly, like I'm a nutcase (which I obviously am, and I know I am, but I can't stop ranting until he finds something about it funny right? So I can then pretend that's the end of the story and leave).
Then I run out of bollocks. And there's a long pause. And I end up with something fannyish like:
"So yeah, that's about the size of it"
And he looks at me a little longer, and I start to think it's a look of threat. My drunk brain suddenly says "HE IS GOING TO KILL YOU, YOU FUCKING RAMBLING IDIOT".
Then he laughs! A long hearty belly laugh, I've never felt so relieved (he's obviously hammered too by the way). He says he'd "forgotten how funny I was" - cute, but we still didn't get on at school - and asks if I want to go up to his mate's house. I'm vastly dubious - why do I want to anywhere with this odd geezer who finds stories about milk addiction funny? But my one single legitmate excuse "I need milk" is batted back at me - "Kus, there'll be plenty of milk at this party, trust me".
Retrospectively, an odd thing to say. I wonder now if "milk" is a code word for something else. At the time though, I was drunk, and not really thinking, and we all do dumb things when drunk right? So I said okay.
And we walk
and walk
and walk
And we rock up to Rubislaw Den North. Turns out this party is in a fucking mansion in the richest part of the west end. The dude who lives there, he's about our age, he claims to have a job of some sort, but is cagey about exactly what it is ("he does fuck all" my associate informs me on the way). About 7 years ago his parents said "Alright son, we're bored of Aberdeen - we're off to Spain. One of us will come home when the other dies - look after the house till then".
The place was mad - it was like something out of the OC, or some other bad American show about folk who have more money than sence and no responsibilities. The living room alone was bigger than my entire flat, and when we first enter it's got about 40 folk dancing in it. The walls must be sound proofed, because outside the house I couldn't hear the HORRENDOUSLY LOUD TECHNO music that is now virtually shaking my bollocks off. The skinhead peels off leaving me like a tit in a room full of folk who are probably more sober than me, but far further gone in any other repect you care to mention.
"Fuck this" I thought - I'm being to realise this was foolish and I think this is a good time to escape. Toilet first though. So I sneak through the house looking for a likely bog. Failure. What I find instead is the kitchen. It's got about 20 folk in it, and straight away I feel a little more at home. Through the haze of cigarette smoke, I see wine bottles, I see wine glasses, I see people holding both. This is a good sign.
Someone says hello to me, and soon I've introduced myself to everyone. My job crops up again, and a lot of people seem genuinely interested in my wine knowledge. "This is awesome" I think to myself. Time ticks on, drinks flow, and I really starting to enjoy myself. I can afford to spend a wee bit of time observing things around me. For a start, there are A LOT OF DRUGS. There seems to be some sort of infinite supply of coke being dispensed from near the kitchen table (where it turns out our host is sat, dishing out the stuff). I refrain when offered, as I'm quickly progressing back from "sobering" to "steamboats". And this is where things start to get seriously hazy.
I remember chatting to a rather attractive girl about giraffes, and something about high end Burgundy, and I remember we both found it hilarious, but I have no idea what the connection was.
I remember there was a lass, dressed... um... dubiously, who kept disappearing upstairs with various gentlemen, only to return 15-20 minutes later. I would feel I was disrespecting her by suggesting she might have been a prostitute, but seeing as she'll never read this I will: She almost certainly WAS a prostitute.
After sometime things quiten down - the rave crew are still going, albeit a reduced figure. The kitchen lot "retire to the drawing room" (you couldn't make this shit up), and folk start to KO. The coke users are still going though, and everytime someone falls asleep they're doing mean stuff to them. They've already located a dude snoring in the upstairs loo, and he's now got red hair (that's not me by the way), a tall lass now has distinctly shorter hair than she had before, and several lads have swapped shirts and all their boots are tied together. Childish stuff I admit, but pretty funny at the time. It was somewhere about this point that we all decided it would be cool to dye my hair red (I thought the dude on the bathroom floor looked pretty cool, although they'd dyed quite a lot of the tiling at the same time, and it looked like he might have been murdered). Soon after which, in an act that will be enternally burnt onto the inside of my mind, three girls stripped a sleeping man BUTT NAKED, and shaved every inch of his body. I will never EVER forget them wedging his cheeks apart and shaving his crack. Urk.
But that's about it for remembering. Somehow, a couple of us ended up back in the kitchen, where I woke up not very many hours later to a girl, whose name now escapes me, offering me a cup.
"Coffee?" I asked hopefully
"Southern C and Coke"
"Awesome" I thought.
And I stumblywumblied home, finding on my way a scrap of paper in my pocket with the dude's house number, and the date of his next shindig on it! Sweet!
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