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…