BETAMAXNOMATES

Uh, where was I? Oh yeah, Alex: hate him. Mostly as he uses his foreignness as an excuse to act like an arsehole. Yeah, well, I’m sorry there, Russki, but that’s not how we do things over here. Maybe I’m on shaky ground here, but WTF, Alex is a guest in our country. And if I was a guest in your house... [Edited for racism]… ungrateful mothershitter. Son of an ass.

He was joined, almost immediately, by the evening’s self-appointed matchmaker - maybe her name was Eileen, well pissed by now, she looked like Richard Dreyfus had sculpted her from mashed potato. I simply had to meet Gorgeous Blonde Laura, she told me. I was introduced to Laura - neither particularly gorgeous, nor even particularly blonde - and for a while we sniggered at the boss getting locked and she - no shit - bitched about how the stingy single parent allowance meant this was her only night out before Christmas.
Good times, my friends, good times.

Most of the time though I spent talking to Alicia, a friend of Laura’s, small, slim brunette. All similarities to Siobhan Fahey ended there however - at one point I do distinctly remember complaining that she was no match for the mighty Siobhan, who she took for a colleague of mine in Menswear, before a stern lecture on why Siobhan Fahey is the most sexiest, most talentedest woman in the world ever.

Suitably educated in all things Fahey-related, she quickly made her excuses and went home to her child, though she did leave me her number (Laura’s too). I’ll probably phone them too – late one night, when I'm lonely, shouting Shakespeare's Sister lyrics at them.

'Of a wave said to the laureate, YOU WHORE OF SIN! Hot as any hottentot and not the goods for me, WHORE!... [Edited for irrelevance, personal abuse, and unsportsmanlike remarks about British actress Kate Winstone and her struggle with hyper-obesity - The Administrator]

The night slowly lurched into morning: the matchmaker staggered over as everyone was leaving, and leaning heavily on my shoulder, managed to slur: ‘Yiz lads have rubbed some people up the wrong way tonight’. Somewhat drunk, and – given her size – slightly nervous, I laughed it off, making a feeble joke about rubbing people, which the 17yr old next to me seemed to find hilarious. Patrick, it's probably fair to say, didn't take this news very well, kicking over chairs and bellowing abuse at this woman all the way to the car park.

He did it all the way home in the taxi too, breaking off mid sentence to punch the back of the seat, ranting about how that bitch was gonna pay.

They were the worst of times, and the worser of times.

This story has no climax, no insight, no real ‘point’ or anything, just the telling.

I suppose I have a curious affection for the shabbier side of life, the grubbiness, Febreeze freshened but still indelibly tainted - the whole ex-Hollyoaks-babe-guests-in ITV-original-drama of it all. Someone asked me this week if I had any embarrassing stories. It's a good question, and I've come to realise that my whole life is an embarrassing story, an exercise in public mortification.

And between the crippling bouts of black depression, nobody’s laughing harder than me.

Yours, in eternal emptiness,

No Use for a Name.