Nouse.co.uk » Social Pariah

Social Pariah

February 27, 2008
Lily Eastwood

You thought you were bumbling and charming. A sort of Hugh Grant method; it works particularly well if you’re a little bit well spoken, and a fair bit middle class. Stuttering and stumbling your way into his heart, the perfect cover for social awkwardness But it’s all a little bit Rain Man really, when you’re sitting in the middle of your seminar, awkwardly, if not actually sweetly, muttering to the group. “Um, uh, err….” Look at me! Look how endearing I am – don’t you want to protect me? Ecstasy bubbles up inside you as he finally opens his mouth to talk to you. “Are you drunk?”

Your eyes meet across the bar. Accidentally of course, but then you accidentally look again and he winks. By some glorious serendipity he ends up next to you in the club. Once more unto the breach, dear friends, in search of a real man. He’s tall, he’s got facial hair; maybe he’s not the freak the others have been. Can I get you a drink? Of course you can. All brushing fingertips and coy smiles . I am the envy of everyone. But wait? Did he just say “actual choon”? He must be so cool he’s ironic. He hands his phone across. A flirty message? “U r a qt”. Shit. He can’t even read.

A friend once told me that as the New Year chimes in your state of mind is indicative of the rest of your year. Two minutes to midnight, smelling slightly of sick and leaving rubber gloves and my little sister’s friend crumpled on the floor, I scamper down the stairs. My nearest and dearest are gathered around the TV, arm in arm. Jools is leading us into 2008. New year, new hope, let the good times roll. Three, two, one… My sparkler doesn’t light and my champagne fizzes down my chin. I am fated to spend 2008 coughing, spluttering and playing with fire, whilst my friend is in the garden vomiting onto my mum’s bush.

There’s nowhere colder than the night bus stop, nowhere in the world. I huddle knee to knee with my gig going buddies and share the come-down after a wild night. Three pints, then chips and cheese. Like I said, wild. Suddenly, someone taps me on the shoulder. I turn round to be greeted by the happy face of a clubber. “Do you know how to get to Exeter?” He enquires. I am a little puzzled, but ever willing to help. I begin: “Well, there probably won’t be a train until morning, but–” “Nah mate! I said where to get some ecstasy!” Note to self: I am not rock and roll.

“Why would you take them off?” “They were really hurting!” “You could hurt yourself going round barefoot.” “I could have hurt myself continuing to wear them!” The way I saw it was simple. Shoes equal crippledom, no shoes equal ability to go get a drink. I could see them from the bar, nestled under a sofa in the Ziggy’s champagne room. A couple were conveniently warding thieves off by snogging on the sofa. A minute later, I look back. Couple still snogging, shoes gone. Last I heard of them they were confiscated for being thrown around the dance floor, but were reclaimed by some girl. Shoe-thieving tramp. I wish I’d had verrucas.