The Ying And The Yang

To every equal there is an opposite, tonight we are to meet Tim's. Neil is on his way and with him is his colleague and long time mate 'Brett'.
“Well that will make Brett positively cosmopolitan for most of the Bar Med clientele” Tim replies once I've explained that Brett moved over from Oz a few years ago, “He should do well here” and Tim waves to the mass of people that have now begun to arrive.

Brett is the ying to Tim's yang, same sort of height, age, field of work, plenty in common but existing at the other end of life's spectrum. Brett wears beads; not the conspicuous type but the ones that jangle with the slightest of movements, in the middle of the beads is an odd shaped piece of metal like a mini ‘Batleth’ (Klingon sword like weapon). He has an eyebrow pierced, long dark shoulder length hair and greets everyone with a cheery 'G'Day' because Brett really is an Australian. He likes to dance, even without beer Brett likes to dance, you just try and stop him. He uses lots of colourful expletives, as is customary with antipodeans. As I watch Brett dance it strikes me that he doesn't do the usual conformist dancing, no small slight moves, he dances like a wild man and I wonder if this is an aboriginal technique that has filtered down through popular Australian culture. The personal body space he requires for his 'moves' is four fold that of his fellow dancers. "But watch…" Tim tells me pointing to a couple of girls on the edge of the dance floor and coming closer to the ever advancing Brett. The girls look nervous and when it looks like Brett's bouncing around is in danger of causing body contact they run away. "Ahhh, but watch those girls there…" I point to three young ladies who approach the dance floor and immediately join him. Three for the price of two seems like a good trade, fair dinkum. Eventually I join them and dance, I dance with abandonment and as I do in my head Bar Med becomes a happier place.

Tim plays it cool, behind me he stands with a drink in his hand, in front of me are Neil and Brett stomping in time with a heavy bass and mingling with a mass of dancing bodies. I turn, look to my left and look to my right, dance or drink? So my time is split, I drink a bottle, then dance and repeat. Brett represents the light drinking and heavy dancing while Tim is the opposite. Eventually we decide to move on to Ikon Diva, against my wishes and better judgement.

To begin with Brett prefers it upstairs, with its young and hardcore style, while Tim prefers the gentle melodies of ‘10CC’ and ‘Dexy’s Midnight Runners’ downstairs, again showing how different they both are. I think Neil belongs upstairs while I’d rather be back at Bar Med or falling asleep in bed. We start downstairs and to Tim’s protests end up moving upstairs. While the three of us are dancing I see a couple of guys floating towards us. Small chaps with tight trousers and tops that could be lycra vests, their hair is highlighted and together they look like a couple of super heroes, a duo of ‘Boy Wonders’ or possibly super villains, star midget wrestlers at a push. One moves behind Neil while the other moves behind Brett and then their dancing becomes a little more ‘gyrating’ while the moves are a tad more suggestive. Some entertainment is best observed instead of becoming direct audience participation; I can see what’s coming. I scarper off the dance floor and pull Tim’s attention to the unfolding spectacle. By now it’s difficult to see if the likely duo are making physical contact with Neil and Brett but the expression on Brett’s face shows a look that is no longer jovial and happy. Brett and Neil stop dancing and an exchange of words follows, Neil is all smiles while Brett looks more pissed off, at the same time me and Tim are laughing. Eventually the dancing begins again and looking crestfallen the two small lads slope off. Later Neil told me how he had explained to the guy that he took it as a compliment but was both straight, married and happy that way. I’m not too sure what Brett said, something very blunt and not too PC I'd guess, obviously we took the piss some. The bonus for Tim was that we went downstairs after that and stayed there.

The night ended with a trip to a kebab house, not the one where the bloke behind the counter reckons Tim looks like Jack Dee (we’ll steer clear of there for a while *see The Metaphorical Ten Minutes ).

The Not So American Americans

Sometimes, every now and then, with some confusion and wonderment you will see a beautiful woman with a bloke who’s definitely punched outside his weight with unnatural success. A stunner going out with a guy who dropped from the ugly tree, strange but it does happen. You see them holding hands in supermarkets, walking down the street, rarely but possibly canoodling in a dark club together. Tonight I see such a couple, here is a small podgy man doing some kind of idiot dancing that he clearly thinks would qualify him for the cast of ‘Riverdance’, but standing beside him and towering above him is an Amazon beauty. Wearing a powder blue slip of a dress, long blonde hair, sparking blue eyes, cheeky smile and a sun tan to top off the whole effect is a girl you would buy a copy of ‘FHM’ to study closer, but she seems to be with this small plump guy, the Gods it seem do have a sense of humour. Joining the unlikely duo is another girl, not unpleasant on the eye, jolly, like the bloke she has dark brunette hair and brown eyes, I wonder if they’re related. How does such a bloke pull such a girl in Crawley? I then have a flash of an inspired explanation, they must be American, it stands to reason, in America this guy would be below average weight and able to skim off some of the top cream like this blonde lass here. I turn to Tim, “I bet they’re all American, hence that couple there getting together, we are after all only five minutes from Gatwick, they probably flew in tonight”, Tim says nothing but the doubtful expression on his face says it all. My drunken mind now needs to prove to itself that my American theory is correct, I approach the brunette. “Excuse me” I say aloud, she turns “what me?” she asks looking around, “er, yes, silly question I know, but I was just thinking that you and your friends must be from America” I tell her, “No” she answers bluntly, “Canada?” I follow up, “Nope” she tells me and I realise my theory has smashed and I’ve lost. “I’m from Pound Hill” (a local area I’ve never visited but always imagined to be hilly and covered in Pound Shops) she pronounces ‘pound’ with a string of ‘a’s at the beginning “Paaaaaaand Hill”. The pronunciation makes me shiver, it sounds like nails on slate or chalk on chalkboard. She notices my reaction, “I can see from my use of the word paaaaaaand and not pound that you don’t think I’m American anymore” she tells me with some directness, I shake my head and together we both laugh. This is my brother, also local and his local girlfriend and I’m ‘Zoe’, we then shake hands. After pointing me out to her boyfriend she tells him that I’d mistaken them all for Americans. “Why is that?” asks Zoe’s brother, “I caught a quick sound bite of your accent and thought you sounded from across the pond” I lie skilfully. He nods and points to the blonde, “she’s my girlfriend” he tells me bluntly, I think of a follow up, a hearty congratulations seems in order, but I just smile and nod my head politely and he goes back to his silly dancing just in time for a ‘Take That’ track. He knows the score and pointing her out is like a dog pissing on a lamppost and marking his territory, she’s a trophy, I also suspect he knows the universe may correct itself any time soon. I’ve been on double Jack Daniels and coke most of the night on top of the obligatory bottles of beer, the effects are being felt. Tim chats a while with Zoe and finds she’s 22 (he guessed 24), lives in a council flat and has a two year old son, with that last bit of information Tim breaks of all further communications, abruptly. She looks at me “I’m off to join my brother and his missus on the dance floor, I’ll catch you later” and then she begins to head off, as she does she turns back “oh, and that American chat up line, very original, I liked it”. I’m not too sure how to respond, I could argue that it was my actual belief or allow her to think that I came up with a rather clever chat up approach and take the compliment, “thanks” I answer weakly.

Having decided to hit the bar and carry on my fall into oblivion I come face to face with something I’ve dreaded even more than seeing the moon-faced woman, I see my last ex’. She looks at me and nothing seems to register, then it does, she swears under her breath allowing me to just about lip read the expletive. She pulls her mate’s arm and disappears into the crowds. There is a relief in my heart, some confrontations are best avoided and this is one, except for one thing, without going into any great detail she owes me a substantial amount of money. OK, here is a little background story, no more than you need to know. She’s 22 and lives in a council flat in East Grinstead, another ‘chav’ town a lot like Crawley but with nicer countryside. Her ex’ was a nasty piece of work, a drug pusher and a waster, 26 living with his parents, no driving licence, no bank account and a temper. A week after I ended it she was back with him, sad really. Fake Louis Vitton hand bag, Big Brother and nothing else on her TV with a trip to ‘Jumpin’ Jacks’ on a Friday night marking the highlight of any given week, we were incompatible so I called it a day. Staying friends was never going to be an option. The drink is much needed and I return to Tim with a pint of larger and my JD and coke, I tell him about the ex’. A couple of girls sidle up to me while Tim visits the gents, a small really cute blonde and an ‘ok’ mate, she’s small and I look down at her, she looks up and gives me a beaming beautiful smile. She quickly moves off, but I make a mental note to find her when Tim comes back. When Tim does eventually get back I head off to answer the call of nature, but before I do I turn to a pretty girl standing near us “excuse me” I shout, she turns “yes?” she asks “I’m off to the bog, do us a favour and keep me mate here company while I’m away, look after him”, I turn to Tim and wink. As I head off I see a mass of seething on Tim’s face over riding the embarrassment, but I have my cloak of drunken invincibility on so I don’t much care. When I get back he tells me not to do that again and I agree. We move off and stand at the back, watching the night unfold. It’s been a bad week and the drink numbs away all the nagging troubles that sit untidily on the edge of my thoughts. Soon my round comes around again, heading to the bar I bump almost physically into my ex’ and her mate. I decide to do the grown up thing “How are you?” I ask her mate “I trust all is well”, a little panic flashes across her face “I’m fine thanks, but I’m not really supposed to talk to you” she tells me. My ex’ is standing behind her looking very annoyed “Come away!” she demands of her friend and pulls her arm, but here is the surprising thing, her mate stands her ground, a little in defiance. The one thing all her mates agreed on was that I was better for her than the 26 year old waster she now lives with again. I liked her mates and mostly I think they liked me. “Sorry” I told her; “oh, and please remind your friend that she still owes me…” splash!!! My ex’ threw the last remnants of her drink over me, at just the precise moment that I was about to reveal something that I don’t think she wanted her mate or mates to know. She gripped her friend harder and dragged her away leaving me to wipe the dripping drink from my face. I smiled, either calculated or emotionally driven a point had been made and the drink in the face was small price to pay, think about it, she paid for that drink and then sacrificed it, I’d have used the free tap water you can get behind the bar.

Experience has taught me that sometimes situations snowball very quickly and the best thing you can do is skip out fast, this was one such situation, plus it was Friday the 13th and I was so drunk I could hardly stand. “You need to look after me mate I can’t stand straight” I tell Tim “probably best we leave” he tells me sagely and I agree. Tim is a hero that night, to this day I have no idea how we got home, teleportation technology for all I know, but get home we did where I was promptly sick, but all the better for it. A good night with so much promise had quickly crashed and burned, but a release valve had opened and maybe a mental hurdle overcome. A week later a not unsubstantial sum of money was paid into my bank account, my statement shows my ex’s name next to the source, which is the happy ending I wanted, except I wonder if Zoe’s brother is still with the stunning blonde?

The Metaphorical Ten Minutes

I need a good night, tonight just me and Tim venture to Bar Med (no Neil or others).
Sitting in the taxi I look around at the roads, no traffic, no people, nothing, it could be night in a post apocalyptic Crawley, where is everyone? The taxi driver is optimistic that tonight will be busy but I can’t see how, there isn’t a soul about. The radio in the taxi starts playing a new track, it’s ‘Hero’ by Enrique Iglesias, it begins “Would you dance, if I asked you to dance?” with those lyrics lingering in the air I look back at Tim, maybe it’s a sign, we could dance with some ladies “No” says Tim without me having to say anything. He doesn’t do dancing. We enter Bar Med, get the drinks and stand in the usual place. Two girls stand directly in front of us on the level below. “Which one do you want?” Tim challenges, “Mmmm, I’ll take the brunette” I answer. The blonde is slightly better looking but the brunette is smiling and acting a bit more animated. “Good” says Tim “because I prefer the blonde.” At that very moment two guys venture across the empty floor space and each pair off with one of the ladies, smiles and slickness oozing. They look French. “I’ll give it ten minutes until the girls blow them out” proclaims Tim, I look at my watch. “We shall see” I tell him “but I’m not so sure you’re right”, “Wait and see” a confident Tim challenges. Twenty minutes pass and the girls are still chatting to them “See” I point out to Tim, “It was a metaphorical ten minutes” Tim argues.

We venture closer to the dance floor. A couple of girls come over from the bar and ask for a light. Placing my hand into my breast pocket I scrabble around with little success, eventually I locate it in a smaller lower pocket, things get worse. I attempt to open the wrong end and finally light it clumsily with both hands. My smooth one finger split second lighting action, especially developed and honed on my ‘pulling lighter’ has abandoned me. Even the man washing hands in the toilet has run out of Chupa lollipops (he gets no tip for this). All I can do is smile while getting slowly drunk on double vodkas and this is exactly what I do. The night is a disaster, the club is empty. I see a familiar group towards the end of the evening, I point over to the brunette, blonde and the two accompanying blokes “See Tim, those two guys are still with them, more than two hours now mate”, Tim looks and shakes his head.

Crawley is dead and my desire to continue over to Ikon/Diva was never there, not after my last visit, it wouldn’t be any better. Giro cheques have not come through, Christmas and the New Year has financially wiped everyone out, pay day is a long way off and no one is out. We decide to cut our losses and go home, but Tim is hungry. Before hailing a cab we stop in a kebab shop. “Excuse me” says the man in the kebab shop, “but does your friend remind you of anyone”, he asks, “a dry comedian?” he presses. I instantly know the answer to his question; I’ve known Tim for a number of years, I've heard it all before “Jack Dee!” I announce. “Yes!” declares the man from the kebab shop in euphoria “You look like that man my friend” he tells him. I look towards Tim; no flicker of a smile, his eyebrow completes a single twitch, the temperature has dropped. “All I wanted was a bloody kebab” Tim screams with fury. I want to watch, the kebab seller has the look of a man juggling cut-throat razors, but the look of a man who’s forgotten how mid performance, just at the time when it occurs to him that fingers are going to be lost. The man behind the counter has misjudged his audience and bitten off more than he can chew. I want to watch, but it’s a morbid curiosity, the sort you see when drivers slow down to view a car accident, but I can’t, so I turn and leave walking towards the road, all the way I can hear a tirade of anger emanating from Tim. Time passes and I walk back to the shop. “So just forget taking the piss and just give me a bloody kebab!” Tim finishes his rant and in a much calmer voice he adds “and a salad please.” Calmness returns and the man silently completes his job. Apparently Tim did take his eyes off the kebab and yes I’d be suspicious of the contents of the ‘special sauce’.

First Friday of the month, first Friday of the year and Crawley Bar Med failed to live up to expectations. Hopefully things will be better next week…