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.