It was my birthday yesterday, and this morning, I am ashamed to say, I am decidedly overhung.
I was joined early in the evening by my good friend (and nascent transvestite pop star) Nelson Galaxy, who brought with him several bottles of frosty champagne, a crate of cold Budweiser and a brace of Beaujolais Nouveaux, all of which are now terrorising my head, heart and lungs and, I suspect, have convened a protest meeting in my bowels for around two o’clock this afternoon. (Ah, alcohol: the answer to, and the reason for, all of life’s problems.)
These facts, and my embarrassing crapulence aside, however, I am happy to report that the four of us – I, Nelson, Audrey and the booze – enjoyed a very agreeable night of celebration indeed.
Unlike my usual commemorative occasions with Nelson, this one was slightly more sophisticated as it was conducted, by and large, in a very self-possessed and mature manner – for us, anyway.
He talked me into visiting several of the local hostelries, something I am not that keen on doing as I don’t generally take pleasure in being around tipsy strangers at times like these. Lately, I have developed an acute case of that well-known complaint, Anti-Social Behaviour Disorder, a condition apparently quite common around these parts.
“Last one there is a Muppet!” yelled Nelson as he forcibly ejected himself from the house. I had to laugh as he propelled himself clumsily along the rain-soaked streets, tottering precariously on his high-heeled boots, his quavering falsetto echoing in the night while his heavy, black, eye make-up made him look like a tall, skinny panda as he lurched forwards in the direction of the deserted market place.
The worst part of the evening was bumping into an old acquaintance in the Royal Oak. I’m rather disappointed to say that we have become enemies over the past few years. A sad state of affairs that evolved out of some tiresome and absurd argument, the exact details of which I can no longer recall – or would wish to. It is a shame, though, as we used to enjoy each other’s company. I had heard recently with a satisfying sense of schadenfreude that this person had made a couple of dubious business decisions and had consequently fallen on hard times. Last night, he seemed to have been determinedly drowning his sorrows in Brandy as he was clearly very inebriated and was expertly slurring his words, a condition I found to be a very unedifying one to be presented with on my birthday. He wasn’t endearing himself to anybody, especially me, as, constantly pushing his face into mine and annoyingly standing on my toes, his brain kept writing cheques that his mouth couldn’t cash. After enduring his loud, spittle-filled rants for half an hour or so, Nelson and I decided to move on, just as his features were beginning to resemble those of a gurning, medieval witch, who in a more credulous age, would perhaps have been man-handled out of the building and tied to the nearest stake, basted liberally, and generally made ready for an early morning public burning.
I should point out here that I am not a great judge of character when I first meet someone. It has happened again, recently. I have an innate tendency to subjectivity and weak bourgeois sentimentalism. I do truly wish that I could learn to develop more detachment in all my personal relations. I’m sure it would save a lot of time and energy in the long run.
Later on, two very attractive and highly desirable young women came to chat to us and that made my night really. One of them even gave me her telephone number – true! I’m looking at it right now.
The best part of the evening, however, was when Nelson and I returned home – to Audrey’s eager delight – and picked up the two acoustic guitars. We entertained her into the early hours by excitedly bashing out our drunken renditions of several Motown classics like Baby Love (Diana Ross and The Supremes), Uptight (Stevie Wonder) and of course, Smokey Robinson and The Miracles’ the Tracks of My Tears (my all-time number one motor city favourite.)
Around 3am things got a little intense and at the same time confusingly out of focus. The last thing I remember is a burly neighbour banging on the door. He was so ugly and his face was so contorted with anger that he looked like he had spent the whole evening chewing bees. He was happily threatening Nelson with his heavy fists. His warlike gestures and barrage of colourful, murderous invective seemed to not even slightly disturb our Mr Galaxy however, who was just nodding his head and cooing musically. I remember that my friend had the biggest smile on his face that I had ever seen. It seemed, by way of his drunken reasoning, that as if by causing the irate man’s agitated arousal, Nelson and I had achieved some kind of magical reward.
I cannot remember what happened after that, but Nelson’s charm must have won over in the end and finally appeased the severely disgruntled objector, as this morning we are both still in one piece and apart from the inevitable sore heads, we remain – in Audrey’s case at least – undeniably good-looking.
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Davy's Blog,
Humour,
Motown,
Muppets,
Music,
Nelson Galaxy,
Pop Stars,
Relationships,
Transvestism