You’re humming “Eye of the Tiger” for motivation as you swan over to the bar. As you suss out the scene you realise that there are at least three lecherous bettys giving you “sex eyes”.
So men you’ve put on your cleanest pair of jeans, a decidedly average t-shirt and had a spray of some deodorant that leads you to believe you’re a sex machine. Putting in maximum effort you’ve also chewed some gum and run your fingers through your hair. You’re now ready to go out on the pull.
You’re humming “Eye of the Tiger” for motivation as you swan over to the bar. As you suss out the scene you realise that there are at least three lecherous bettys giving you “sex eyes”. You’re wallowing in your popularity and the fact that you’re an uber successful Sales Executive, but then you look around at the blokes you’re with and realise it’s like placing a piece of decent grocery store steak in a Spam factory. Seriously the one guy smells like he’s just eaten a shit sandwich and the other one is pilfering through his backpack trying to find the knockoff porn dvd he promised you as he sips on his pineapple juice. Yeah there’s as much competition in this bar as there is in a pole dancing competition for 18 year old virgins.
Next thing you’ve got a betty on your lap laughing at whatever comes out of your mouth. Hell if it was vomit she’s laugh. She sips casually on her alcopop and starts swiping her credit card in order to get you sufficiently smashed on tequila. The postmodern betty knows that with alcohol even mingers can pull and she will buy drinks if there’s an investment to be made. My my how the tables have turned.
As the night moves further and further down into the pit of bar purgatory the numbers are trailing off. Most of the men have cut their losses; well aside from your loyal wingmen. When the barman calls last round it’s like a game of musical chairs. Ultimately one betty will be left without a lap and she has to go home to eat a tub of Ben & Jerry’s and cry about how dire her life is. For the men it’s been an absolute score, free booze, loose women, and street cred cos let’s face it a cheap evening in London doesn’t always come around.
So the bar is closing and you’re in the mood to sow your wild oats. Whilst taking a slash you’ve decided on where to drag your posse of inebriated bettys. As you manoeuvre your way towards them you keep repeating the question in your head, you look at them, smile and say, ‘are you in… or… are you out?’
There are certainly some giggles and bemused faces as the wasted girls discuss amongst themselves what exactly they could be in for. They nod and say ‘yeah alright then, we’re in‘. You’re golden and as it’s summer they don’t need to get their coats but they do need to go to the offie to buy some hard tack to see them through an entire train journey listening to your conversation.
You arrive in Soho and there’s some concern about the financial implications of such an adventure. With a flick of the wrist you quip, ‘don’t worry about it I’m minted’. You guide them to the “best club in London” which is a thrash metal bar which does everything it says on the tin. As you walk through the door and are asked to pay the £2 entrance per person you utter the indomitable phrase ‘don’t worry I’ve got it covered’ and you pay the £12 to get the entire party through the door. You think that they don’t look that impressed but you’re pretty sure that they are especially when you set off to the jukebox whilst they stand in line to buy drinks.
They have to wait for some time because the barman is preoccupied with the blocked toilet and the plunger. He comes back and pours tequila using his hands to place a crusty slice of lemon on each glass. The thrash metal plays on.
You look at your two estemed wingmen and then at the girls. Upon reflection you decide to go for the one who’s holding on to the barstool to maintain her balance. Either she’s going to fulfil your wildest dreams or she’s going to be barking into the porcelin bus in a couple of hours. You’re a Sales Executive though, a risk taker, you’ve made up your mind and you’re taking the proverbial bull by the horns.
You splash out on £5.50 for a shot of tequila for her. Time passes and so do the tequilas. Eventually the group has dwindled, it’s you, betty (you’ve forgotten her name and it would be rude to have to ask her again) and barman/plumber so you decide to take the plunge and escort her back to your place.
“After a while you decide it’s time to douse her in baby oil for a truly good time; not just a couple of drops like mum used to put in your bath, no no, the whole bottle.”
The journey home is a difficult one because she’s starting to pass out. You ask the taxi driver to stop off at an offie to buy her a Red Bull and you make her drink it to make her feel better. She slops some down her front but by the time you get back to yours she’s pretty up for it again and responds to the tongue you’ve just launched down her throat.
The yale key turns in the lock; you’re impressed because usually it takes a couple of tries. You wave her to the sofa where she sits down, her face is expectant like she’s wanting coffee or water… anything really, but you couldn’t be bothered. You go over to your computer and start replying to some important Sales Executive emails. She stands up and goes to the bathroom, accidentally you close Outlook and get aroused by your desktop wallpaper. It’s time to strike.
You go through to your bedroom and with one fell swoop you’ve removed porn mags, ashtrays, clothes, tissues, cds, empty bottles, newspapers and other accoutrements from your bed and onto your floor. You then remove your shirt and pose. You decide on the “lying on your side, head resting on bent arm sultry number”. Minutes later she enters and is clearly impressed at your modelling skills, you wink and she comes over. After a while you decide it’s time to douse her in baby oil for a truly good time; not just a couple of drops like mum used to put in your bath, no no, the whole bottle.
You wake up and she’s gone like a scone. What you don’t know is that she’s had to take the Bus of Shame back to her place dripping with Johnson and Johnsons. You traipse through to your kitchen find the only clean mug in the house, pour a double whisky, light a smoke and sit back in front of your computer and do some well deserved porn surfing.
Note from La Claw: the events in this story are true. I was a fly on the wall for most of what is described here… the rest I got from a colleague postmortem. I do not recommend drinking at a thrash metal bars, especially if the barman doubles as a plumber. In fact I do not recommend thrash metal bars under any circumstances.