Date: 12 Jul 96
Picture the scene: 2am in some uptown yuppie bar where the neon Corona sign and the barmaid's more than ample cleavage compete for your attention. OK, now that you are listening, forget about this dump (what the hell would any self-respecting DB be doing there anyway; well unless it was happy hour or the last place open) and return to a slightly less savory surroundings where cheap beer and even cheaper beer compete for your attention and the tattoo to the left of the barmaid's cleavage leaves you in no doubt that her girlfriend will kill you if you try anything more than place an order. Better, no?
Well its still 2am as the door to the toilets swings open and a tall silhouette staggers in a somewhat random pattern across the dance floor in the general direction of the pool room and sanity. As the light from the mirror-ball flashed across his face, just for an instant we catch a glimpse of his identity and memories of something to do with camel-jockeys and rag-heads rush towards the frontal lobe, only to be washed back by the next mouthful of beer.
So there I was, n-th beer back in hand, still trying to walk back to the pool room, (well actually just trying to walk) when suddenly all hell breaks loose. The merry bunch of revelers on the dance floor charge for the door, as if driven by some primal urge to throw themselves from a cliff top and I'm stuck by a strange odor that triggers a distant memory - At this point I should add that the cogs upstairs must be gearing down for the 'disable legs' command because my first thought is 'Chanel No.5? Royal Secret? What is that smell?' When suddenly the rapidly flooding eyes use a DMA channel and issue a gentle 'THAT'S FUCKING TEARGAS!' interrupt.
Vivid images of police dogs, high fences and a group of students wearing only lab coats while trying to carry a grave stone flash before my eyes but it's too late, the damage is done. Oh well, only one thing to do: Continue across the now deserted dance floor into the rapidly emptying pool room by way of the vacant bar and continue drinking.
It turns out that some poor drunk was merely trying
to impress some woman on the dance floor with his dogged determination not to sleep
alone but instead of the usual slap/knee-to-the-crotch/ attack-his-car-
with-a-crowbar, she went for the rather drastic mace-the-bastard-
back-to-neanderthal option not thinking an enclosed bar might not be the best place
for this action. Anyway, she got thrown out and he got himself a free beer. Gotta
love this place.
Cheers
ALAN - Who now has an excuse for the bloodshot eyes.