Cowabunga dudes, y’all been peachy? No? Too bad, go tell it to the marines, I ain‘t got taaame for that bull shee-id.
You’re probably here expecting my forthright opinions about the Turner Prize nominees, the number of levels on which voguish US TV drama “Lost” works or a gushing review on the latest best-seller from Baudelaire.
However, I am going to go against type by waffling on about getting pissed up on booze in Whitley Bay again. Consider your expectations subverted, suckers! I’ve gorn and thrown you a curveball, what?
You’re probably aware of the drill by now. Some chaps birthday, ten assorted losers, boozers and jacuzzi users squashed into a taxi, waal-to-waal tidy boilers, all that. Plus ca change, plus c’est la meme chose, as our dutch comrades would have it.
The fine tradition that exists whereby the DJs in all of the pubs in Whitley Bay only play two records all night was being upheld in noble fashion by the denizens of the steel wheels, particularly the cove who looked like Sam Allardyce sporting a handlebar moustache.
The two records in question being the techno stormer "Put your hands up 4 Detroit" and the camp disco bitch floor filler "I don't feel like dancing, me" by The Scissor Sister Band. The latter was the subject of much derision from the more conservative wing of our party, hidebound reactionary sorts who still listen to Oasis. Personally, I like it, I think it's good, but not everyone is as liberal as I am in regards to our "pirates of mens pants" brethren. A shame, I think.
The reason for this expedition was the birthday of one of our group, a notorious hellraiser and ladies man. Hats off to him for the assiduous and painstaking manner in which he ensured the adherence to the practice of buying drinks for the birthday boy. I'm sure he produced a clipboard and checklist at one point, proving to be a very organised fellow where getting gratis grog was concerned. Good work, longshanks.
However, something seemed to be not quite right. For a start, it wasn’t a Bank Holiday Monday, the traditional date for a jaunt up the coast. Secondly the pubs, normally chocker to blocker, weren’t as busy, the empty spaces exposing the threadbare, down-at-heel nature of some of the less exclusive premises. The hot topic on everyone's lips, however, was The Mystery Of Where All The Smart Blart Was!
It was with a sickening sense of comprehension that it dawned that the town seemed to be filled with big gangs of knuckle-dragging blokes and raddled old women choking for a bit of Tyne Dock. No place for a bunch of fresh-faced sophisticates such as we. It seemed that an unheard of bad night in Whitley was unfolding.
The town was so quiet that not one single cackling woman had invaded the gents toilets in a bid to avoid the queues at the Ladies and glimpse some cocks.
Long faces abounded and there were mutterings of jumping ship and heading for Newcastle.
However, the deus ex machina was waiting for us in the next bar. I forget it’s name but they have a raised stage with railings around it for lasses to get up on and dance. And get up and dance they did.
In the words of Eric Burdons, there were long ones, tall ones, short ones, brown ones, black ones, round ones, big ones, crazy ones. It was skill.
In addition to the ladies on stage entertaining all and sundry, there were lasses out on the floor, scornful of those who got up but intent on proving how dirtily they too could dance. As one of our party commented “She let us put me hands up her skirt and everything!”
The action hotted up further as two of the chaps had their shirts stripped off by amorous lovelies. Elsewhere, another fellow and a chunky lass from the Midlands got down to some heavy petting in the corner while our resident papparazzi style photographer was getting everything captured for posterity in a series of stills and moving images that the little pervert has probably knocked one out to at a later date.
That said, if you're looking in, bung any good photos of lezzing up this way, you hear?
By the time we made it to a nightclub the whole company was in high spirits and up for some dancefloor rug-cutting. The scene resembled one of those rap videos you see with all big booty hoes giving it plenty with asses akimbo, while chaps in white trainers give you the lowdown vis a vis bitches, brews and the electric boogaloo.
A capital time was had by all and there was even a bit of time to talk to women, which is always a fraught and potentially-embarrassing enterprise.
Now they may charge you the earth for a pot of booze in Whitley Bay but they clearly put something in it that warps the mind of the fairer sex.
What other explanation can there be for a large-bosomed blonde of twenty-one summers to not only talk to, but appear to enjoy the attentions of, a sweaty-faced shaven headed thug who won’t see thirty again?
Furthermore, it was surely the after effects of smoking crack cocaine are responsible for the same female being of the opinion that I looked about the same age as her.
Still though, giddy up, eh? A bit of a boost for the old ego, eh?
Also, there is the possibility that it was a combination of my dancefloor twinkling toes and cavalcade of stinging lines that I laid on her that she liked.
In a chimp’s cock! She must have been on the pipe. Or a mentaller.
The proceedings broke up around half two and a taxi ride back to civilisation ended up with empty pockets all round and complex bartering with the driver as seven drunken blokes attempted intoxicated arithmetic with ten pound notes thrown about like rice at a wedding.
The snoozers in the party crashed out almost immediately, drooling out the sides of mouths or repeatedly banging heads against radiators while the more alert of us knocked back bottled lager and white wine while monging in front of music TV and talking pseudo-chav nonsense about "whiteys", "bewers" and "cabbage".
It had been a long night.
Get down and get with it, pop kids. I’m audi, y'all.