The Sophisticated Shannon

We stand in the same spot where we stood last week (and I’ve stood for the last three). To the right of the entrance in front of the table, overlooking the dance floor, just on the corner. This view point has a number of advantages, mainly that you can spot and assess the women as they walk down the stairs, you can view most of the dance floor from up here and you get to watch and chuckle at the high number of people that slip on the stairs. I agree that anyone falling down stairs is really no laughing matter, but imagine the victim wearing stilettos a short skirt and then imagine this having drunk six bottles of beer, it’s hilarious! We adopt the four bottles of beer at a time regime, developed for maximum impact and success, happily in no time it has the desired results.

I see the usual faces and can even put a couple of names to a few following last weeks antics. This week things seem different, Tim is more driven, he has the eye of the ‘Tiger’ and is determined to chalk up some sort of score. We mingle on the dance floor, chat to a few women in turn and regroup. “Last week Wayne we were getting knock backs from the massive women, big monsters, women I wouldn’t usually look twice at, that can’t happen again this week.” Last week I didn’t make much of an effort to chat up any woman for myself, I have a real problem with getting drunk and throwing my standards out of the window, I can’t do it. Alcohol should work its magic on the ladies to a point where they look upon you like an Adonis, I can’t reverse this formula. No matter how much I drink I can’t pull a fat ugly lass, sure maybe the beer will erode my tastes a little, but not pack their bags and catch the next train to ‘No Mans Land’. By this point Tim’s standards are lost somewhere with the ‘Mars Beagle 2’ and show no evidence of returning, at least any time soon.

For some reason, which must have a link to Tim’s aversion to dance floors, he can’t hear a word I’m saying. Oddly he takes his mobile phone out and starts typing a text message, finished and holds the phone in front of my nose “I CANT HEAR YOU” the message reads, I mouth the words “OK” and stand to the side with my bottle in hand. The night progresses and Tim eyes up two girls. One is round, very round, yet small and with her hair in tight braids, she is wearing ‘painted on’ (or so they seem) black ski pants, stiletto heals and a loose blouse. Her friend is even smaller, also portly, looks older and oriental. Tim approaches the ‘rounder’ of the two and whisks her off the dance floor and up to the upper level of the club. This leaves me standing with the small portly girl and stand I do. A few minutes pass and I look down, she looks up and smiles, I smile back and nod my head. More minutes pass and I have this nasty feeling that something has passed by default, my mate has gone with her mate and like the last remaining hands in a game of ‘snap’ we are matched, there is my destiny for the evening, I shudder. Circumstances have paired us up. More minutes pass and I visibly look at my watch and back down at her, I feel like we’re waiting for a bus, but she looks up and smiles. Alas I can’t take it anymore “Excuse me!” I yell at her, she looks up with an absolute beam of a smile, “yes!” she shouts with way too much enthusiasm, “Your mate is over there” and I point to Tim and the odd shaped girl. Her expression goes from ecstatic smile to thunder in an instant, she reaches down for her bag with a face that looks like it hopes to find a samurai sword. She then marches over to her mate (still with Tim), shouts and marches out of the club. A flood of guilt and relief wash over me at the same time.

I walk over to Tim and the girl; she is typing something into Tim’s phone and handing it back to him. “Is your mate deaf or something?” she asks me, she pronounces ‘something’ as ‘sumfink’, a local girl I think (or should I say fink). Neglecting the fact that few deaf people would have need of a telephone (yes, I know they can text) I shout back “No a little hard of hearing”. Tim spends an age tapping at his phone and holds it aloft in front of us both “WHAT?” it reads. I shake my head and take a couple of steps back leaving them to it. She reminds me of a ‘Weeble’, those plastic egg shaped toy people from my childhood, ‘Weebles wobble but they don’t fall down’ was the advertising slogan. I have no doubt she would fall down with some ease, yet she teeters on a pair of stilettos, I can’t imagine what the pressure must be at their points but it reminds me of a mini car I once saw with its weight being distributed by just fragile wine glasses on it’s wheels. “If my boyfriend could see us now he would kill me” she tells us, pauses for some thought, looks at Tim and says “and you”. “Where is he” I ask looking around quickly, “Oh in Damascus” she laughs, “But he’s married anyways” she says more for Tim’s benefit than mine. I chat to her briefly, “You have the look of a married man who is really gay, you’re married because you don’t want anyone to think you’re gay” she states to me, “No, I’m single and straight” I tell her in all honesty, “What the hell makes you say that?” I quiz her, “Well you have beads round your neck and round your wrist” she tells me with a completely serious face, “SO!” I shout at her “they aren’t gay”, “whatever” she replies. “Your mate, he has such lovely eyes” she tells me as we leave; I look down at her and shrug my shoulders. Outside Tim tries to persuade her that we are some kind of ‘party animals’ and the fun is going to continue at my place. I think of my neighbours, the lack of any alcoholic drinks in the flat and wonder exactly what he has in mind. We set off to grab something to eat, but then Tim and Sharon (I had by this point learnt her name) have a change of heart and we all grab a cab to my home.

Once at home Sharon has a nose around the flat (not putting me at any ease), she walks into my kitchen and checks out the drinks cabinet, which is sadly bare except for the redundant drinking glasses. Then the strangest thing happens, with a cracking noise she drops and sinks an inch, on one foot and quickly jumps to the other. Upon investigation I see that one of the floor tiles has cracked under the total weight on one stiletto, not only that but it’s managed to pierce a one inch hole in the floor board beneath. “Your flat is suffering from a structural defect or sunfink” she tells us both straight faced. “No it isn’t” Tim tells her, “Please follow me” he finishes taking her hand and gently guiding her back into the living room, thankfully. In the living room we discuss the politics of local issues, although she lives with just her mum in a council flat, all council properties are full of scum she claims. I explain that as people buy them and sell them, new properties are going up and old increasing in price the unsavoury element will eventually be priced out of Crawley, she disagrees and fails to comprehend my point at all. Apparently ‘Crawley girls’ hate ‘East Grinstead’ girls (and vice versa), always good to see a little local rivalry. Tim is intent on picking out music tracks to play on the stereo, ‘Communards’, ‘Erasure’ and ‘The Pet Shop Boys’ head his line up, eventually I play some ‘Air’ and some ‘Soft Parade’ at Sharon’s request, a selection that impresses me more than Tim’s did. Sharon had spotted the guitars on the tour and asks me firstly if I can play, “A little” I tell her and secondly if I’d play something, so I do. At one point I pass Tim in the hallway heading to the toilet, “Are you taking her to bed or me?” he asks, “she’s all yours” I tell him. Tim wants to make his own type of music and quickly I put the guitar down ready to leave them to it again. “Nothing is going to happen” she tells us both, “I’m in the red!” she says as way of an explanation. “You can take me the other way, but you’ll have to wear a condom” she ends, with not a trace of embarrassment. Suddenly I’m very sober and running the words through my head again to see if I’ve misunderstood her meaning, but no I understood perfectly, I shudder with horror for the second time that night. Tim kisses her and together they head off to the spare room.

I’m up early the next morning, partly to see if she’s still here and then to see if my laptop and TV are, they are. I also use the time to lay a new floor tile in the kitchen. Tim soon bounds happily into the kitchen, he’s glowing, “huge tits” he muses, “huge everything” I mutter. “Well done” I congratulate him with some gusto. She soon leaves. After she’s gone Tim asks me “What was her name?”, I shake my head “Sharon was her name” I answer. “Mmmmm, well if anyone asks her name was Shannon, it sounds a bit more sophisticated” he tells me, we laugh as the kettle boils for the coffee and tea.

Another night of antics provided by ‘Bar Med’ in Crawley.