Wednesday, February 29, 2012

Say Cheese. Mean Cheese.

Well, if ever my friends and I needed a flashing neon light penetrating our consciousness with the slogan 'You are getting old' this was it.

It was Cordy's birthday. She's one of my favourite friends. She's as effervescent as a bottle of pop that's been all shook up. A group of us went out for dinner and then we danced to some ska. I say dance, because it makes us sound cool and I want you to think I am cool. Stood at the back getting pissed and talking to strangers is more apt. But less cool. But I've told you now. I stood at the back during a ska gig and ate Cordy's birthday cake while telling a Turkish girl she looked Polish. Less cool.

Cordy wanted to move on somewhere else for a change of scenery and as her loyal birthday celebrators, we happily obliged.

Next venue, a bar serving tea and warm rum. Both of which were ordered. That's right, it was nearly midnight and we were slipping.

I wanted to be on the best form I possibly could be for Cordy. She plays a blinder every time I see her, with her never ending eagerness to be awake. But I'd eaten a lot of cake and drunk a lot of gin. Cordy mentioned that she wanted to go to a nightclub. One we all knew would be inevitably packed full of sweaty trendy people getting their groove on. One where we wouldn't be able to hear each other, it would take ages to get to the bar and if we had any dreams about seats, we could keep on dreaming. Standing room only. Standing and dancing. And let's face it, I hadn't had enough gin.

I caught Cesca's eye. She was drinking tea. I was thinking it. She was thinking it, I could tell. I looked at Gareth. He was sharing a pot of tea with Cesca. He was thinking it too. There was Olly, we'd forced him to have a warm rum but he hadn't spoken in about half an hour so there was no doubt about his thoughts.

Alright I admit it! We all wanted to go home, damn it! It was late, we were tired. A sweaty nightclub sounded like the idea of someone who was only turning 28, (Cordy) when all her friends were 30 (us). It's not our fault she hangs around geriatrics.

To our delight, Cords was up for home too. When I say home, I don't mean bed. No no - the party would continue, but in the luxury of home. Tired Cesca, lagging Gareth, drunk Olly and Cop-Out Kim were revitalised by the idea. I'd even go so far as to say a second wind was in the air.

We'd buy some cheese and some red wine and we'd go home... home, that beautiful place where we'd all have a seat, control of the music, endless wine and limitless cheese. Surely there's no nightclub that can compete with that winning combination.

Now, where to purchase cheese as a Saturday night approaches midnight?

The lovely little barmaid came over to collect the empties. She had dreads and brightly coloured bits in her hair. She was possibly wearing a woolly jumper.

'Is there anywhere around here we can get some cheese?' Cordy asked her, as innocently as a birthday girl can.

The little dreaded girl looked at Cordy, tall, smiling, tipsy, middle class, clearly out for some fun.

'Ganja?' she asked. 'Do you mean ganja? Do you want some pot?'

Oh god. Awkward. No, we actually really mean cheese. Camembert. Brie. Cheddar. Just something tasty to compliment our wine.

There was a time not so long ago when if someone had offered us ganja, we'd have bought whatever they had on them. There was a time when if someone had offered me an aspirin I'd have taken it just to see if it made me feel different.

But those days are dying a slow, sorry, boring death. We don't want ganja, thanks, we were just wondering if the local Tesco is open at this time of night. We've got a lovely rijoca at home and it goes so well with a slice of Port Salut.

Happy 28th birthday Cords. Sorry we didn't tie you to a lamppost and strap an IV drip of vodka to your veins while serenading you with strippers and drugs.


Anonymous said...

It's a turning point. A lovely cheese-filled turning point...

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