Sunday, February 03, 2008

Espace de Conard

An example of why my life is hilarious in a sort of, "Thank Christ I'm not her sort of way".

Remember Juice Man? No? Ok, brief catch up for those who don't...

Ticked all the relevant boxes - nice hair, skinny jeans, expressive eyes (go on, take the piss. I think its because mine really don't work that I'm fixated on everyone elses) blah blah. Missing the pouty mouth but we can't be perfect you know. Alas he opened his mouth and I very quickly went off him. I'd be doing bananas an injustice if I said he about the same conversational range as one. So I won't. He had the same conversational range as a pineapple.

Friday night and I'm indulging far too heavily in the pub when some indie boy with nice hair walks past. Obviously the radar picks up this subtle but lethal combination. My heart sinks. Yes. It is the Juice Man. And he is headed straight for me. I down my drink and mutter, "Jesus Christ". I introduce him to my friends. A motley crew we made indeed. Me in my disco-tastic sparkly leggings, mighty boosh shoe boots and a bag that looks like a chicken. All my lady friends with cocktail umbrellas in their hair and in various states of sparkliness. Hayley, with a cape on her top. Cow, telling everyone how much we all love the cock through the medium of cocktail menus. The boys trying to pretend they don't know us in their jeans and generic t shirts. You get the idea. A looney bin excursion doesn't being to cover it. 

Me: "Everyone, this is the Juice Man".

My friends, mishearing (maybe. I can't be sure): "HELLO JIZZ MAN"

I find this absolutely hilarious and make a mental note to use this from now on. Jizz Man however, does not. In fact, he looks like he wants to kill all my friends. The conversational range of a pineapple AND no sense of humour. Hmm. Twat.

And then begins the, How you doing, What you up to, conversation. In a word, excruciating. I decide to escape outside for a cigarette and start wrapping this conversation up. He smokes. FUCK IT.

The excruciating conversation moves outside. Where there is 20p on the floor. So he bends down and picks it up. I shit you not. To compound the cringeworthiness of this some random blokes shout, "Theres 5p over here you can have mate". He then holds up the 20p to my face and says, "I dropped this. This is mine." One word. Why? 

It then transpires his friends have skanked him. I wonder why. He then proceeds to call them cunts. He barely knows me. You can't say that in front of strangers. That is strictly limited to use around good friends who know you have a mouth like a dustbin. For all he knows I could be a nu-rave nun in training. Still reeling from his indiscriminate potty mouth I am then caught off guard when he asks where I'm going next. I tell the truth. God Damn It. The Spanish Inquisition begins. How much is it to get in, when am I going, who am I going with, why am I going and on and on it goes. I start to fear for my nipples in case he uses electroshock therapy on them to get me to tell the truth Pentagon/Meat Safe Murderer style. This exchange means that I tell him that someone has vouchers and we get in for free and get a free shot before midnight.

Him: Do you have a spare voucher?

Me: Er, I don't think so I didn't organise it. I just turn up and drink and entertain everyone.

Him: Right, what we'll do is you'll go in with your voucher but don't give it to the person taking the vouchers. If you get to keep it then you ring me. Then you go outside "for a cigarette" but then I'll be outside and you can give me the voucher and then I'll use it and you can come back in with me because your hand will be stamped.

Me (sensing a fatal flaw in this plan): I don't have your phone number (oh and another thing. I hated myself a little bit when I said it because the wanking prick face knew that I'd say that. Had I not had so much to drink I would have been quicker on my feet and just said ok and then escaped. But I'd had a lot to drink.)

Then I was subjected to the puke inducing swapping of phone numbers. And luckily he then fucked off. I marched in and regaled this complete nonsense of an encounter to my friends. They were most helpful. Responses ranged from, 

"Ah, he isn't the man for you. If he picks 20p up off of the floor he'll never buy you expensive handbags and Clinique moisturiser"
"He's still fit though. Neck him"

And then a phrase that was on the front of a birthday card I recently bought a friend came in to my mind, "Better to have loved and lost than to spend the rest of your life with a psycho".

In other news: 
How fucking catchy is Cryptic? I'm sure all the cool, electro kids have been all over it for about 100 years but I'm not a cool, electro kid so I'm still in awe of it. And I'm pretty positive all the indie Bloc Party kids will be all over it soon enough for obvious reasons. Good name too.

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