The Miscarriage Of Justice

With a pre-drink (quickly sunk at home) in our bellies (beer and a glass of wine) we venture into the cold. Outside a heavy mist hangs and a bitter sting chills the darkness. We wait on this winter Friday evening for our ride to arrive; I’d happily walk to save the price of a pint. Tim is now contracting and fallen into that most fortunate of positions where he’s become ‘out of touch’ with the value of goods and services, I’ve seen this happen to a few contractors, item prices are roughly translated into sterling note colours, i.e. a CD is purple, a cinema ticket brown and a drink green (all rounded up). The price of a taxi for a contractor equates to less than 60 seconds of work and then a receipt is collected allowing the cost to be ‘put through the books’ with a TAX saving, sadly I’m not so fortunate. After a very quick drive and handing over a ‘green’ one we arrive at ‘Bar Med’. We’re a little later than usual and the bar has a decent sized crowd. The bouncers open the door and greet us with a now customary “Good evening gentlemen”, we smile and nod our heads. I’m wearing my thick woolly coat and a scarf, before handed it over to the cloakroom staff I thread the scarf through both coat arms, making sure it’s secure and won’t get lost. “No” the woman in the cloakroom tells me, “better if I wrap the scarf around the top of the hanger, like this” she demonstrates and then puts it away. I thank her. With my coat ticket in my hand we head to the bar. With four bottles between us we settle down in our familiar spot. Below us are a couple dancing; she is a tad on the large side while he looks thin to the point of being ill, he’s also wearing a bright purple shirt and dancing like he just can’t wait for the ‘Abba medley’ to begin. “Crawley’s answer to ‘Will and Grace’” Tim announces and nods towards them. I watch them for a while and can’t help but notice that while smiling she looks discreetly embarrassed at the same time.

We decide to move down and into the crowd.Three girls approach us, “Come and dance guys!” yells the older blonde. She comes in close and I size her up. I’ve drunk more than enough and now my ‘acceptable threshold’ has lowered considerably, she just passes. Her two friends are extremely attractive (they would pass when I’m sober) but only flank her in silence refusing to join her efforts to engage us. “Hi!” I yell back. “Are you going to dance?” she shouts pursuing her first line of enquiry. “Tim?” I ask looking at him questionably. Then Tim utters those all too familiar words “I don’t do dancing”, it’s almost become his unofficial catchphrase. We could print the phrase on novelty T-shirts. I smile. “Ahhh come on” begs the girl dragging his arm, but Tim manages to get his arm back and pull away from the dance floor. “My mate here is actually a professional dancer” I tell her with my most sincere face, “He dances all day, like eight hours solid and just doesn’t want to on an evening, this is a break for him, he wont dance”, she looks at Tim with uncertainty in her eyes. “And I’ve got RSI” adds Tim, her uncertainty turns to confusion. I look at him with confusion too “RSI?!?” I quiz him, he nods his head. “Ok” says the blonde and heads off to the dance floor to join her two friends who have by now moved on ahead and disappeared amongst the moving crowd. “RSI?!?” I ask him again, “yes, you know repetitive strain injury from dancing”, in my drunken state it all seems to make perfect sense “ahhhh, I see…” I tell him nodding my head in agreement. Bar Med soon thins out, people leave in droves, we’re yet to discover exactly where they go, but we move on to Ikon\Diva. Leaving ‘Bar Med’ we collect our coats, my coat comes back minus the scarf! “Where’s the scarf?” I ask the gent handing back the coats, “the girl who was here wrapped it around the hanger for special safe keeping, please it must be there” I plead with him hoping he’ll find it, but although he looks it’s never found. Alas my scarf is never to be seen again (it cost nearly a purple one).

The journey costs us another fiver, instead of the cheaper five minute brisk walk. We see a group of young lads getting turned away at the door, they look trouble and quietly I’m pleased to see the bouncers moving them on. Ikon\Diva is a bit busier than last week but the crowd is the same, sad and old downstairs, young and stupid above, we decide to make an effort, to try and turn the evening around. With a beer in my hand I notice a couple of women walking towards us, as they pass behind us I feel a sharp pinch to my bottom and spin my head round. The brunette has just pinched my bum! I look at her with some concentration submitting her face to my memory, a few moments pass and I turn to Tim, “follow me” I tell him, with that I march off in her direction. I see her on the edge of the dance floor holding her drink; she’s deep in conversation with her mate. Gathering a quick pace I make my way towards her. Getting her ‘rear’ into focus as we pass her I’m almost running, but my hand shoots down and pinches her bum firmly. I pray I have the right girl. From a safe distance I come to a standstill and look back, she looks at me with a furious face, a thunderous look, then a flash of recognition registers “You!” she mouths the word pointing with her finger. I mouth the word “Cheeky!” pointing back, her mate is watching all this and together they almost collapse in laughter, I smile and walk away, my work here is done.

They now have a guy in the toilet for drying your hands, handing you aftershave and extorting a quid coin from you, I think it’s supposed to make the place seem up market but it comes across as very pretentious, it’s like quoting ‘T.S. Elliott’ in an issue of ‘Viz’. He sprays my crotch with Lynx as I dry my hands “for the pussy” he tells me, “you’re more optimistic than me” I tell him, “just give her one of these” he tells me and I look down expecting to see some magic Anne Summer’s device or a sachet of ‘Rohypnol’, he hands me a ‘Chupa lolly’, “yes that should work” I thank him dryly.

Its Tim’s turn for the round, I stand at the end of the bar watching the dancing masses while Tim orders the drinks. He strikes up a conversation with a very pretty blonde girl next to him who looks too young to be on this floor; she introduces herself as ‘Helen’ and engages him in small talk. A group of older ladies join her, “Your mum came along tonight?” Tim asks greeting the women, “No!” replies Helen sounding somewhat indignant, “certainly not” chirp the others. Any bonds forged crumble away and we watch as they walk off. I feel another pinch to my bum and watch the brunette’s laughing blonde friend skip into the crowd and onto the dance floor having done the deed. “We have to dance Tim” I tell him, “that’s where it’s all happening”. “I don’t do dancing” Tim tells me, “You want to take a leaf out of that James Nesbit’s book and the book would be the Yellow Pages, the ‘D’ for ‘Dance Lessons’ page” I finish my words looking at a more than slightly angry Tim who doesn’t react too jovially to the remark. An ‘altercation’ ensues at the bar between us and a few angry words are swapped. A tall bloke in a suit taps me on the shoulders, “Can you come this way sir” he tells me, pointing at a door, he’s a bouncer and that wasn’t a question it was an order. “Why?” I ask, I’ve now sobered up utterly and completely. “If you come to my office over here I’ll explain” he tells me pointing to a door, “that’s an exit” I tell him, “No, no” he points again “an office and I just want to talk to you”. I look up “It has a green ‘exit’ sign over the door, the office doesn’t exist and you’re going to kick us out because of a stupid misunderstanding” I argue with him, “just be truthful with me" I tell him. I look around and find Tim has gone. “Please sir follow me, now” and again he points at the door, so I shake my head and follow him. We go through the door and into the cold reception of the main exit. “So where’s the office?” I ask, “I’m afraid I must insist you leave sir” he replies, “Why?” I ask. “A member of my staff heard threats of physical violence, twice sir, so you must leave” he explains. “No” I tell him, “well maybe once, in the heat of the moment, but come on, chucking me out is a bit over the top” I continue, he looks at me “so you’re saying a member of my staff lied?” he asks “Yes I am, like you and the office door” I tell him maybe a little too smugly. He looks unsure and then I think I see an error in judgment register on his face. “Ok, maybe, but the place is only open for another half an hour, I’ll fetch your coat so you avoid the queues and you get a taxi without any waiting” he tells me in a friendlier tone. “I really did want to stay to the end, tonight is the first night this place has stayed open till four am due to the change in licensing laws and here I am, this was going to be a night to tell my grandchildren about. This is a miscarriage of justice” I’m smiling as I finish the sentence. “Sorry mate, rules are rules, if I wanted to let you back in I can’t now, but let me go and get your mate” he tells me then turn around and walks back in. A few moments later Tim is standing by my side looking a little worse for wear and with the two coats. We get outside and start laughing. “All those muppets upstairs itching for a fight and they kick out two of the most civilised people in there, how ironic is that?” I ask Tim, Tim shakes his head and gets in a taxi ready to part with another green one. We got chucked out of Ikon/Diva; even now I really can’t believe it. But I know one thing, next week we will be back and I’ll have my Chupa lolly.

The Night Crawley Died

‘The Night Chicago Died’ was a hit for Paper Lace along with ‘Billy Don’t Be A Hero’ (more on Billy later), but tonight was going to be the night Crawley died.

Last Friday I was away in Dublin getting drunk at an altogether more civilised venue, it really was a fantastic night, but I will admit that my mind did wander back to ‘Bar Med’ a couple of times, maybe even a wistful look fleeted across my face. Tim sent me a text to inform he was bored at home and I know Neil was ready for another visit having been converted on his last trip. Considering the antics of the last four weeks and the increasing number of familiar faces we need to avoid, I think a week off was a good move. So this Friday expectations were running high, Neil wanted a laugh, Tim wanted a little romance and I wanted to get drunk and ‘go with the flow’. We enter Bar Med (minus Neil who was otherwise engaged) and stroll over to the bar. A girl sitting down is paying my rear more attention than she should. “You need to cut the thread” she shouts pointing at the tails on my jacket. A single overlooked thread holds the tails together; I look back at it and wonder how the hell she ever noticed such a thing. “Thank you!” I shout back at her as we move on, a flicker of recognition registers as we pass her. Once standing in our usual place I take off my jacket and snap that thread. “Tonight is going to be your night.” Tim tells me.

Two girls settle on the seats directly behind us, a tall rather large brunette with a slim pretty face that seems to belong on another body and a small blonde with a crooked nose. “You look like Phil Mitchell” the blonde tells me, much to Tim’s amusement. “Er, thanks” I reply, a little unsure if I’ve just been insulted or not. “Forgive my friend she’s a little drunk” the brunette apologises for her mate. “No worries, it could have been worse” I tell her, “Yer like ‘Minty’” she injects, “I’d be on my way home now if she’d said that” I answer truthfully. They both turn to Tim, “If your mate is Phil then you must be… ‘Billy’!” the blonde squeals. Tim says nothing but I can see him weighing up the comparison in his head, a few moments pass and he turns towards the girls “Excuse me, but Billy is an idiot” he tells them with some indignation. The brunette leans forward, “No Billy is sweet, he gets the girls, I mean he shagged that girl out of Emmerdale Farm and she was a looker.” Tim is pacified with this and continues chatting with them. “I can’t look like Phil Mitchell” I pipe up, “he must be in his forties and how old do you think I am?” the brunette studies me and then Tim “I reckon you’re both about 22” she finally answers. She never asks how old we think she or her blonde companion are, which is a shame because ‘24’ is on the tip of my tongue.

In my back pocket is one of the saddest items a man can carry around with him, I don’t actually need it, I just carry it for ‘the ladies’, just in case that rare moment occurs when I actually need one, I am of course talking about my ‘pulling lighter’. As a none-smoker it’s completely redundant, but when that attractive girl to your right turns and asks “Do you have a light?” pulling out a cigarette lighter, flipping on that flame as she gently draws on the end of the tip becomes a seductive act. So I reason I need the ‘best’ lighter I can find for the job, something to impress the gentler sex, I found just the thing in a camping shop, it’s built for survival. This lighter has three intensive jets, three little weather resistant blow torches that ‘MacGuyver’ could gas weld with. The blonde asks for a light and I fumble to find the lighter in my pocket, then I fumble to find which end actually lights. “It looks complicated” the brunette tells us looking at my all-terrain flame igniting instrument, finally I manage to light both of their cigarettes without burning any eyebrows. “You need to practice that and get it to one quick fluidic movement, with just one hand” Tim advises, so I take a moment to practice until I’m satisfied I have it cracked and then return to the conversation with them. The conversation is cut short by a couple of lads wearing pink shirts and spiked hair containing enough hardened hair gel to render it ‘bullet proof’, they rudely interrupt and cut short any potential in-roads that were being built by us.

Things take a dive for the worse when the familiar woman with the ‘cut that thread’ advice and her mate stand next to us, then the flicker of familiarity finally floats to the surface and I realise who she is. “It is the moon faced girl” Tim announces, confirming my thoughts. “Time to go and mingle with the masses” I tell Tim nodding my head towards the dance floor, except the masses are missing, for some reason Crawley is dead tonight. “Not so fast” says Tim placing his arm on the table and blocking my only exit route, “let me just finish my drink” he smiles. I call him a few choice names turning the air blue while my head sinks into my jacket in an effort to make myself less visible, I’m being stalked. Tim finally takes pity “I can’t let you squirm anymore, lets move on” he tells me and then we head onto the dance floor. It’s a disappointment in ‘Bar Med’, there are very few people about, the night is young but the place is emptying out. The few people remaining are predominantly male or “cock heavy” as Tim points out. “Maybe we should move on” I finally conceive at midnight, “perhaps everyone has moved on somewhere else” we ponder. The decision is taken to move onto ‘Ikon\Diva’ in a desperate effort to enjoy the last few hours of the evening. A quick taxi journey and we arrive; immediately we’re pleasantly surprised with the bargain ‘£3’ entry fee and any drink for £3 special offer. We ask the young lady at the cloakroom where the ‘older bit’ of the club is, “I not know” she tells us in an Eastern European accent, “That’s not a Crawley accent, where are you from?” I politely ask her, “I not say” she tells us blankly, “Why do you want to keep your origin secret and how can you not know where the other part of the club is if you work here?” I retaliate, “No” she simply answers so we move on. “She must think we’re with immigration” Tim shares as we walk up the stairs “must be my smart jacket” I tell him. The club is split into two floors, the over ‘25’ ground floor and the under ‘25’ upper floor (so the barman explains). Both are too sad for words. The older crowd seem far too old, lots of ‘mutton dressed as lamb’, men and women approaching fifty and looking desperate. Upstairs is full of young lads dressed from the latest ‘Chav’ catalogue and young girls dressed up with very little on, the less is more approach. Mid thirties are a strange age and deep down I suspect this place only caters for the extremes of the age poll not for those walking the middle ground. We head down to join the elderly gang.

Ikon\Diva is dead too, tonight Crawley is not its usual vibrant self. The BBC is showing its annual ‘Children In Need’ evening, it’s the middle of the month –far away from pay day for most and its absolutely freezing out (tomorrow a frost will be in evidence), this it seems is enough to keep the good folk of Crawley at home. Two girls, late thirties and fairly easy on the eye smile at me and Tim but soon move to the dance floor. “Tim this is the time when we need to dance” I urge him, “They’ll be back, wait and they will come” he replies, “I know but it would seal the deal” I tell him. But Tim is right the track finishes and the girls stand next to us with the one blonde giving Tim a gentle cheeky elbow to the ribs. A tall guy in his mid forties, with thinning hair and a moustache approaches them, stands between them and starts a charm offensive with a noticeable Eastern European accent. “Borat” whispers Tim nodding towards him, I see the girls smiling politely but with an obvious air that wants him to disappear. Borat doesn’t notice or take any hint so the girls move on leaving him alone; as he passes me and Tim he gives us a look of disdain, which can only be a good thing. The girls vanish so we go upstairs to the ‘younger bit’, but feeling way too old we quickly duck back down to join the elderly. The two girls are back on the dance floor, so in a effort to get Tim to dance I make the drunken first move and dance by myself, but next to them, the girls smile, but Tim is still standing on the edge of the dance floor refusing to partake of the funky groove. “We need to get Neil to come so you have a dancing partner” Tim tells me, “True” I agree. The girls leave the dance floor and the club. I stand next to a table nursing my 'JD & Coke'. A local lad joins us and strikes up a conversation, his mate comes over looking particularly drunk and wearing a shirt with printed pink ‘lipstick mark’ lips on the collars “Look at the collars on that shirt” I whisper to Tim smiling and shaking my head. Tim heads off to the toilet as a girl joins us at the table, “Has anyone got a cigarette?” she asks the three of us, the lad with the collars takes out a single ‘B&H’ from a packet he has and I light it for her (with my trusty ‘pulling lighter’). “That’s not a Crawley accent” I repeat for the second time tonight. “No” she tells us all “I’m from the Isle of Skye”, “Really, you sound Scottish” I say in all earnest to her, “Oh I lived in Scotland for a number of years” she answers. Now I’ve been to Edinburgh and loved it and most people from Scotland seem to be from either Edinburgh or Glasgow. Glasgow is rough; it has one of the worst violent crime rates in the UK, no doubt associated to its high poverty levels, Glasgow is not a place I want to visit. “Where in Scotland did you live?” I ask her, thinking ‘please say Edinburgh, please say Edinburgh’, “I lived in Glasgow for the last four years” she announces and I lose all interest. “Why didn’t you go back to the Isle of Skye, instead of ending up in this dump that is Crawley?” I ask her, but she never has a chance to answer “And where are you from exactly?” a disgruntled male voice to my left asks. Originally I’m from Birmingham but after a decade down South my accent has almost gone, but comes back after a few drinks and I’ve had more than a few drinks. “I came here tonight from my home in Three Bridges” I answer truthfully while dodging my exact initial origins, “In which case, he’s right Crawley really is a dump” he tells the girl with a tone of deep disappointment, I smile. My mobile rings and Tim tells me he’s outside freezing his nuts off. I wish everyone goodnight and leave for home. Tonight was missing something, mostly people sadly.

The Oldest Profession

This Friday ‘Neil’ joins us for the duration of the evening, slowly getting tipsy on a mixture of bottled ‘Corona’ lager and Jack Daniels + Coke.

Neil is happily married and displays his wedding ring upon the appropriate finger. The ring seems to have some sort of magical side effect, maybe it makes him appear more of a challenge but soon girls begin to flock and gravitate towards him. I test the ring but sadly it doesn’t yield the same results, Neil politely tells me that it’s probably making me invisible, prompting me to hand it back. Neil is also willing to dance and indeed he does, that contagious beat forces me to dance on the spot as well, Tim however stands as still as a statue watching us with a look of contempt (Tim doesn't do dancing). The next round falls to Tim, so off he trundles to the bar to buy the drinks. A lady, slightly on the wrong side of curvaceous with a few deep laughter lines approaches him, offers to pay for the round on the provision that he orders her a drink and follows this up with a snog! Neil sees Tim kissing this woman at the bar and points to the ongoing action. Tim has done it again, but she really isn't that bad and I'm impressed with his efforts. Her name is Michelle and her friends are Lisa and Suzie. In pecking order Suzie is the most attractive and then Michelle with Lisa trailing last, Lisa seems to be the intellectual member of the group and makes the best conversation, oddly I’m quite taken with her. Suzie and Lisa seem a little distant from Michelle and possibly even intimidated, this is just a feeling I get. As Michelle attempts to coax Tim to dance me and Neil can’t help but laugh, she will never get him to dance and she soon admits defeat and gives up. The night comes to a close. Neil gets a lift home from his understanding wife (driving to Bar Med in Jim Jams) and Tim is pulled out of the club by Michelle who has a firm grip on his hand. Strangely a single cab is waiting outside the club, not taking any other passengers but waiting for us, so we all hop in. The driver is ‘Andy’, a good mate of Michelle and was apparently waiting for her to leave, I wonder how he knew that we were leaving at that time?? He has no drugs or alcohol located in the car and knows of no one local that can supply anything, this is in answer to repeated requests ‘to score some gear’ from Michelle. Andy has seen her brother ‘Kevin’ that night and ‘Kevin’ is a grade 'A' nutter according to the driver, Michelle is quick to confirm this fact, she continues by informing us that if he knew where she was going he would come over and give both of us a good kicking. At this point a chorus of alarm bells are ringing in my head, while Tim looks blissfully close to falling unconscious. Michelle stretches across the backseat of the cab, putting her head in Tim’s lap and Tim’s hands on her breast ‘Ah-Oh’ announces the driver seeing all this in the mirror and causing me to look back at the spectacle. It’s going to be a long eventful evening. Tim pushes his wallet into my hand as we leave, which strikes me as odd but strangely wise at the same time.

Michelle thinks the flat belongs to my parents and asks where they are, I explain it’s mine but she looks doubtful. Tim wants a drink and Michelle wants any intoxicant she can get her hands on, I have a nice ‘Rose’ bottle of wine and a 25 year old single malt whisky. I advise them against the sealed whisky (only for special occasions) and the wine is opened, sadly those will be the only two glasses of wine poured from the bottle and the rest will be tipped away next day. She wants to listen to some music or watch ‘porn’, Tim will happily enjoy either but I suspect prefer the latter, I just want the morning and daylight to arrive. Leaving them both in the living room I head into the kitchen and pour myself a glass of chilled filtered water with ice. I return to the living room and freeze in my tracks as I open the door, standing in the centre of the room is Tim with a bra in his hands and Michelle with her breasts hanging out. “Do you mind?!?!” he yells. “How was I supposed to know?” I tell him, “It’s my bloody home...” I mutter as I head off to my bedroom. Tim walks to his spare room with Michelle, “Are we going to do it now or what?” (or words possibly a tad more vulgar) I hear him ask, “We need to chat..” she tells him and then I hear the toilet door shut. I’d got as far as removing my shoes and socks when Michelle enters my room (Tim had gone to the toilet) and she drapes herself across my bed. I’m more than a little annoyed and want nothing more than to get rid of her out of my room (preferably the flat). “What was your name again?” I ask, “Michelle” she giggles, “But that’s my work name” she confesses. “I’m also known as Nicole” she continued. My mouth is hanging wide, agape and I’m in a state of some shock, “Your working name?!?!” I repeat, “Yes” she laughs. Her real name is Laura, possibly. She tells me a story of a couple of guys who engaged in her services the week before, one had asked her to put a dagger in a place where daggers aren’t usually kept. “Tim isn’t into any of that weird shit is he?” she asks in a small voice, “Yup Tim is exactly the sort of guy who would want you to shove a dagger up your cu…!” Tim enters the room catching the last sentence and immediately turns into a rage. “Apologise to me and Michelle, NOW!” he shouts. “What?!” I ask. “Apologise!” he shouts again. The whole surreal quality of the evening slips away and the raw ingredients of the night sink in, I’m standing in my bedroom in my home being told to apologise for the stupidest comment made to a prostitute. I feel myself begin to burn and a small spark of fury begins to rise. “In the kitchen, NOW!” I shout back. We both retire into the kitchen (I place my wallet in my pocket on the way out). “Do you know what you’ve put under my roof?” I ask him in a low whisper. “No” he replies looking confused. “A prostitute Tim! That’s what”, “now if you want to spend the night with her there’s a Holiday Inn over the road and that’s where you’ll be staying.” The look of confusion turns slowly to an innocent look of bewilderment and lastly a look of startled horror. “No?!?” he asks, “Yup” I answer.

Michelle or Nicole or Laura enters the kitchen with a bit more purpose. “You two are both strange.” She tells us, “Really strange” she reiterates. I wonder what the normal people she encounters are like. “I had a strange boyfriend once, he made me torch his office”, I don’t like the opening of this story, “I was given 12 months, but served only 6” she ends. I don’t want to know anymore, but she hasn’t finished with the jail tales. “My brother is in prison” she announces. “Kevin?” I ask confused (remember Andy had seen him earlier). “No, Liam. He stomped on someone’s head and killed them” she finished looking sad. I look at Tim and a wide awake sober looking Tim stares straight back. “I think you should go” he announces slowly and with some authority. Back in the living room Michelle (I’ll use her working name) calls Andy on her mobile and passes me the phone. I tell Andy that she is fine and ready to go home, he asks for my flat number but I tell him to meet her where he dropped her off. I’m not giving out my flat number and hopefully she won’t remember. We have to wait 15 mins for him to arrive. She tells me and Tim about her husband, boyfriend and daughter. She calls her husband and tells him that she doesn’t know where she is but she’s heading back, after a moment of listening she passes Tim the phone. “He wants to speak to you” she tells him. Tim looks at the phone and speaks into it “I’m not prepared to have this conversation” he tells the husband at the other end, he then closes the phone and ends the call in one action passing the phone back to Michelle. “I’ll escort you down” he tells her, but he never does, as soon as she exits Tim locks the door behind her and she’s gone (I pray).

Tomorrow we’ll laugh about it but tonight I think we got off light. In the morning we find her bra and a pair of solid silver Tiffany ear-rings, she made a loss last night. Another night at Bar Med and another tale to tell.