How Not to Win a Writing Competiton

The first and foremost rule of not winning a writing competition is this: Don’t read the rules.

For instance:

“Urbis and SMITH want you to describe your life as a writer, artist, or raconteur in six well-chosen words. We’ll feature the best ones on Urbis and SMITH—and they could end up in a future book.”
-smithmag.net

You may find that, while concocting these anecdotes, the majority of what you can think of- and what everyone else thinks of- is pretentious, repetitive tosh.

“My words, my life… My arse.”

“The ink my pen bleeds love”.

“Write, send, get rejected, rewrite, yawn.”

All very poetic, and I can agree sometimes poignant.

But is it fun?

Reading- and writing- should be massively entertaining. I found trying to write about creativity too awkward. I expect it would be like giving a speech about childbirth… while you are in the final stages of labour. It could be done, I suppose, but it’s difficult to explain, and it’s one of those things that speaks for its self.

But the potential to tell stories in a six-word format, with no boundaries- that’s entertainment.

Here are a few I hammered out, story title first:

No one can judge me
“Court case thrown out: free man!”

How to stay young
“Man stays youthful through permanent retardation.”

Advice on Relationships
“If love hurts, stop dating sadomasochists!”

Try coming up with anything as ridiculous or as absurd as that, within the catchments of “the creative life”. It’s impossible. The writer is almost forced into pomposity. Bravo to the winning entries as they were poignant and- wait for it- actually entertaining.

Well, enough bitching. Are you ready for a game? Name that film, represented in six-word memoir style!

1) Man kills dad to free galaxy.

2) Jewell thief admits being a cop.

3) Kill my crew? Eat vacuum, Alien!

4) Jew gangster grasses friends. Escapes alive!

5) Cripple does “Wild Goose” on cop.

6) Cat avenges dad’s death; becomes king.

7) Astronauts find ape world. It’s home!

8) Clerk kills wife’s pimp; finds paydirt.

9) After boxing, misogynist becomes fat comedian.

10) Son runs dad’s business; removes brother-in-law.

Back to the point.

My humble opinion is that writing of any kind, no matter how short or long, requires two things to stand out from the crowd: outstanding content and outstanding skill. The winners of the competition exemplified both of these. Here’s a final afterthought:

“Your manuscript is both good and original; but the part that is good is not original, and the part that is original is not good.” ~Author Unknown, commonly misattributed to Samuel Johnson (*) (Thank you, Frank Lynch.)

Emergency Services Night

In early 2007 I must have looked like a dodgy bastard. Not in terms of physical appearance; but there was something inexplicable about me that just attracted trouble, no matter how much I tried to avoid it.

A classic example: I’d been out with Colin on Oldham’s Yorkshire Street, apparently the third most violent street in Britain according to government statistics and the local newspaper. 

Driving, I spent the night sober. Not driving, and dare I mention it- banned, Colin was not sober- far from it. Hence I took on the role of Chauffeur Supreme, and kept a watchful eye on my company- who openly described himself as “one hell of a beer hound”.

Normally Colin was the one looking after me: his football hooligan days set him in good stead for the risks of a night in Oldham. That night he’d hammered the drink quite quickly but seemingly knew when to stop and ask me for a lift, necking the dregs of his pint and thumbing to the door with practiced skill.

I’d given him a lift once before, and tonight I’d definitely started driving in the right direction. I need to do a route three times before I know it. But Colin’s instructions had stopped, and I was on a strange road.

“We still going the right way, Col?”

No answer.

“Col. Colin.”

With one hand on the wheel and both eyes locked on the unfamiliar road, I shook Colin’s shoulder. His upper body slouched left and his head lightly knocked on the door window, tongue lolled to one side.

Oh, fuck, I thought. He’s out cold. What has he taken? Okay. Calm down. Let’s imagine that I was a responsible adult. What would I do?

The car lights illuminated a sign for Rochdale centre. Oldham has a St. John’s ambulance normally. Rochdale must have too, given its similarly dangerous reputation.

Please don’t throw up in my mum’s car, I thought. Don’t OD either… Col’s done enough looking-after for me, I thought. I’m not letting him down.

I spotted the waiting ambulance in the centre of town and slammed the car as close as I could get to it- in a nearby taxi rank. Locking Colin inside, I strode over to the technicians with a minor gut feeling that I could have a serious situation on my hands. I’d never dealt with an unconscious person before. I’d also never had a chance to learn any first aid. I had no idea how serious this was.

I explained the scenario to the ambulance workers. The woman followed me while the man stood guard of the van.

“What’s your friend’s name?” she asked, snapping on some medical gloves.

“Colin.”

Inevitably, a taxi had pulled in behind me and the Asian driver was unimpressed that a random Nissan Micra had taken his place in the queue.

“Here y’are mate, how are we supposed to work when”-

Before I’d even thought of politely explaining, the ambulance man had jumped in.

“We’ve got an emergency situation with this car here. So get back in your taxi and wait. Okay?”

The taxi driver sat back, browbeaten.

I let the woman in and she basically did what I did, minus driving. She shook his shoulder and shouted at him.

“Colin. Colin. Wake up.”

Col’s mental transgression from confusion to minor panic, then surprise, was priceless.

“Your mate’s trying to take you home. Do you know where you live?”

Col stammered out his address.

I thought ahead. “Do you know how to get there from here?”

“Where are we?” he asked, bemused.

“Rochdale.”

Col blinked. “Er, yeah.”

I thanked the lady, who then ordered the three disgruntled taxi drivers in front of me to leave the rank so I could get out.

“Oh… Newby…” Colin was gradually realising where he was and why. “I’m so sorry. I’m SO sorry.”

When I finally got to Colin’s, his housemates were still awake. I retold the night’s story with such vigour and enthusiasm that I got the inevitable, “My god, he is Jim Carrey” treatment. And I try so hard to be like Andy Garcia…

So with Colin home safe there was only myself to take care of.

I’d got about two thirds of the way home, through Oldham centre (for an obligatory cruise to check out the women queuing for taxis) and out to the suburbs before the lights flashed in my mirror.

Fuck, I thought. What have I done now?

I pulled over, tailed by the blue-and-yellow Vectra. It was a fairly non-descript night out, we’d not done anything dishonourable (other than to go to Oldham in the first place). But casting my mind back, there was nothing the police could seemingly book me for. Parking in a taxi rank? Yeah, right. Checking out women? Well, it’s not as if I was slowly driving past bars and making strange animalistic noises whenever a short skirt was near.

Not this weekend, anyway.

I checked my mirror. The officer got out of his car and walked cautiously towards me, chin down, talking to the radio on his shoulder.

It’s Saturday night, and it’s 1AM. I’m a young man in a red Nissan Micra, traditionally a woman’s car. If I was a policeman, I thought, I’d pull me over too. I wound my window down.

“I pulled you over,” the officer said, hands on knees, “because we’ve had reports of a car matching your description being driven erratically in the area.”

There’s a pause.

“Right,” I say, but it comes out like a question.

“Have you had anything to drink tonight, sir?”

“No, only soft drinks.”

“Is this your car, sir?”

“No, it’s my mum’s. I’m insured on it.”

I just want to go home. I’ve had enough absurdity for one day. Let’s get a move on, I thought.

“You can see my licence if you want.”

“No, no. That won’t be necessary. I’m satisfied that you’re safe to drive this car. Take care, sir.”

Well, I thought, as Officer Zealot got back in his car. Whoever is drink- driving in Oldham, this guy’s going to catch them. Especially if he’s pulling over any random car he can find. That’s what we pay tax for.

I knew where the cameras are in my area, but I still kept under the speed limit until I got home. It’s strange. The emergency services crews are usually there in places where they are most needed. They have hard jobs that they perform well in. But sometimes those there to protect us- whether it be our mates, ambulance ops or police- seem to be the most likely to give us a heart attack.

Cruising

You can tell you’re personally developing when someone actually rings you for moral support. They trust you to enough of a degree to call you, over everyone else, in order for them to sort their head out. I don’t think that had ever happened before yesterday.

John’s ex is pregnant with his baby. I offered him my congratulations but he did not want to hear it.

I was shattered from too many late nights and early mornings, but I couldn’t have stayed in at a time like this- we needed to go out and let John take his mind off things. Oldham, on a Monday night though, can be best described in one word- dull. Walkabout was pretty much empty. Except for me, John and Chantelle- a girl that John knows who looked vaguely familiar, the place was bereft of entertainment. Chantelle -damn good-looking but gets ID’d a lot- told me she’s an art student. I asked if she’d heard of a painter called Malevich, someone I’d studied at GCSE level. She hadn’t.

So after wondering around a few bars, and him relentlessly kicking my ass at pool, and playing air guitar to Thin Lizzy’s Whisky in the Jar, we decided to go on a mission. This was not least because the pub seemed to be fragranced with eau de OAP home.

First stop- my house. I caned Mum’s Nissan Micra down Lees road to the “temporary” traffic lights. These lights and road works have been there so long that 2 businesses in Lees have had to close down because nobody can be arsed fighting through the traffic to shop there. John taught me a trick- flash the main beam lights in two short bursts. Leave a second’s gap. Flash it again. The traffic light thinks your car is an emergency services vehicle with the lights on, and swaps red to green. Genius!

Not many of my mates have seen the inside of my house, and I’ve not had anyone round since I dated some randomer from Walkabout over a year ago. We had sat drinking tea in the lounge, desperately tying to string an uncomfortable conversation together. This time, it was around quarter to midnight on a Monday and Mum and Dad were asleep upstairs. The booze was still in the garage from Emma’s party, so I dished some of that out. Being designated driver, as usual, I absconded.

John reminded me I was allowed one. I don’t normally go into detail about this with people, but as he’d been pretty open with me before I found it only fair to explain why, if I’m driving, I do not touch alcohol.

Martin Johnston was a friend of mine from college who died in a drink drive incident just before Christmas in 2001. He got in a car with someone who’d been drinking. He was driven into a wall between Mossley and Stalybridge. He was 18. At this time I was about halfway through my 14- month long, 100+ hours of driving lessons. I’m a slow learner.

This incident had somewhat of an effect on me and after the funeral I made a conscious decision to keep alcohol and driving in two separate worlds, never bringing the two together.

We loaded the car with beer and cider and aimed for Uppermill, a quaint village in Saddleworth. I drove insanely fast down country roads in the dark, like a responsible adult, while John acted rally instructor in the passenger seat. He even told me when to change gear to maximise speed on hills. How immoral. All the while, we blasted out whatever was half decent on the radio. Every time I hear The Sweet Escape by Gwen Stefani, I will forever think of that night. We almost went to Huddersfield to the sound of “’Cause I’ve been actinglikesourmilkpouredonthefloorandthenIdidn’tshuttherefrigeratormaybethat’sthereasonI’vebeenactingso co-old…” Dance Nation’s Move Your Love also punctuated the night. You can find them in my Myspace friends space. It was around this time I learned that trying to dance whilst driving at high speeds in the dark is dangerous. I frequently came close to losing control of the car, not to mention my colon.

We also visited Delph, one of Oldham’s most difficult places to find. It just isn’t next to anywhere that anyone would know. I was totally in John’s hands (figuratively), as without him I’d have been stuck out there. I couldn’t have got out. Delph is like a dull version of Narnia, only painfully real.

There is an eighties song with the lyrics, “there’s a tree by a river near a hole in the ground…” I think that song was written about Saddleworth Tops. All of the characteristics mentioned were present. There was nothing going “round and around”, though. It was the most serene, silent place in Oldham. The view was good and the air was clean, which we noticed straight away.

It occurred to me and John, while on the tops of Saddleworth moors, that we needed a piss. We found a lay-by somewhere near a stream. It was pretty much pitch black and somewhat edgy, given that Moira Hindley murdered numerous children and buried them somewhere out there forty years ago. Some bodies were apparently never discovered, which added to the chill.

We couldn’t encourage Chantelle to urinate in a farmer’s driveway while we leaned on the bonnet out of eyeshot, so John came up with a plan. He called one of his many associates in Oldham and we made a beeline for Sholver- the “South Central” of Oldham, you could say. Chantelle was at breaking point. I told her to picture a huge concrete dam, and I did more obscenely fast driving. John’s short-cut plan fell through when we ended up on a country road that turned into a flagged path that turned into a rocky carving in the hillside, so I had to reverse down this narrow gap in between two fields. Rear lights on a Nissan Micra aren’t as illuminative as the front lights. With every bump Chantelle got more nervous, and so did John and me.

We made a quick stop at John’s mate’s house for Chantelle and then we called it a night. We dropped Chantelle off- I’ve already totally forgotten where she lives- and me and John agreed to do this again. Only next time we’re picking a different town. John told me he appreciated the opportunity to take his mind off things: I realised I’d completely forgot, by this time, why he’d rang me in the first place. I also realised that Nissan Micras don’t have the world’s best mileage. I used up a good portion of the tank that night. It will be interesting to see what Mum says.

Access Denied

Sarah is somewhat of a disreputable character. She has previously confessed- no, wait- bragged- that she has beaten up lads and that she hates Asians. She drinks pints and can generally drink most men under the table. She can definitely out-drink me.

I wouldn’t really describe her as my type. Only she’s quite good-looking, and has an infectious little giggle when she flirts. Oh, and she has huge breasts. This could be why I relentlessly forgave her for her ridiculous behaviour over four years.

When there’s only one part of me making the decisions- not the brain- I have a tendency to go round the flirt circle. I lust after someone, uncover psychotic tendencies, tell them to fuck off and get a lobotomy, lust again, and then forgive.

Four years on, the circle continues. Last year, I had driven to Oldham and had found Sarah in Walkabout. Predictably, and with minimal flirt time, I’d kissed her again.

Unlike most men, I find alcohol to do nothing but fuck up my chances with women. That’s why I was driving and that’s how I found myself in Walkabout with my arms around Sarah, again, trying to keep my eyes pointing above neck level.

Three years before this, I had told her I was a virgin. I still was that night, but we’d not breached the subject since. Would she remember? Would she believe me? Is she even up for sex?
Stop. Calm down. Think thoughts like that and you definitely won’t get sex.

I gave her a lift home. This led me to be sat on the couch in her mum’s lounge, a steaming mug of hot chocolate on one side of me and Sarah on the other.

“So explain the suit,” she said, pulling on a jacket lapel.

“Oh. You’d have to be a man to understand, Sarah.” I’ll give you a clue, I thought. Look where it’s got me right now.

She pulled me in closer until I was pressed against her; those two massive beasts slammed together in a red corset- an image I might never forget.

I’d been kissing her for a matter of seconds before her phone rang.

My shoulders slouched suddenly, and I sighed at the typicality of the situation. Now. Fucking. What.

“Just a moment,” she said, a sudden embarrassment fleeting over her face. She picked up.

“Hello… Yeah… No. He’s just a friend- Right. Okay.”

Now Sarah’s posture was similarly slouched. Inevitability had struck again. I had to find it kind of funny. I looked up at the ceiling- her mum could be directly above us, almost anticipating a banal, explicit, muffled soundtrack to the rest of her night.

But she had been spared.

Sarah put her phone back in her handbag. “I’m sorry Matt. You’re gonna have to go.”

Fuck, I thought. I’ve hardly even touched my chocolate.

I nodded. As I stood up and headed toward the door, my mind went into fast-forward. How could I salvage some dignity from this situation? My place would result in a similar letdown. My room is a thin wall away from my light-sleeping parents’ room. Could I afford a hotel? Well, yes, just about. But asking if I could take her to one might not only sound cheap (the hotel would have to be too), but also it would be an affirmation that I was after sex. That’s perhaps not the best impression to give a girl with such volatile tendencies. But then what am I doing here? Why would she invite me in? It must be on her mind.

I was out of ideas, and out of time. And I didn’t have the social graces to manoeuvre this minefield.

“Stay in touch,” I said. “We’ll figure something out.” I kissed her and got back in my car.
I don’t need to tell you what kind of situation I would have preferred. Of course I was kind of pissed off. But maybe being thrown out of a girl’s house by her (possibly jealous) mother is something we all must face- a part of growing up.

I had to go back to Walkabout. By the time I got there the bar was shut. They were already cleaning up, and I was already laughing.

Being a recent former employee they let me in, and I recounted the last hour’s events. The staff were in a similar state of disbelief- what the hell else could possibly go wrong for me? What other scenarios are left?

If anyone knows of any low-priced accommodation in Oldham, please let me know. Otherwise I will continue to find myself in these predicaments.

Please spare a thought for me.

Intense Staff Party

February 2004

She’s still mumbling something as she starts to lift her dress. Disbelief hits me hard: I slightly panic as I realise no one would believe my story if they caught me now, with this extremely drunk girl. After I pulled that thirty-something in the middle of a shift last week, all the staff think I’m some kind of womaniser: if anyone sees me now, they’ll assume I’m worse…

THE NIGHT BEFORE

I’d been on my feet for the last nine hours. The plan for the following night’s party was confusing me: We were supposed to be wearing rugby kit, but where the hell I was supposed to get that from I had no idea. Even if I’d had planned in advance I still wouldn’t have wanted to have shelled out. Fuck it, I thought, I’ll figure something out.

“Drinks at ours Matt. You coming?”

I was kind of jealous of Dave. He was about the same age as me, but taller, handsome, built like a brick shithouse, and utterly full of himself. I’d worked with him for a couple of weeks and one thing seemed apparent: He LOVED his job. I, on the other hand, was on the verge of quitting.
I could really do with some sleep, I was thinking, especially seeing as I’ve got a late night tomorrow and lectures possibly the day after (I didn’t even know what I was doing that far ahead). Although if I do quit, I might as well see what happens over the next few days. Soak up the Living Room experience.

“Uh, yeah, okay.”

Dave’s apartment defied belief, considering he’s a bartender- one of the lowest paid jobs you can get. The apartment block had been renovated within the last couple of years from an old hospital but now the building was a model example of what Manchester was producing: smart, compact housing for young professionals. I noticed a century FM car parked outside. Some day, I thought… I’ll work for a radio station and make loads of money…

Dave stuck Royksopp on the Hi-Fi, an album I’d bought a few weeks before so at least I’d got the conversation rolling. He handed me a Stella.

“I only drink spirits, mate. Have you got anything like that?”

“Er, no.”

A divide was growing already. These guys had worked together for a while, and I wasn’t sure how welcome I was. But the car advert was becoming a mantra me and with my uni mates: It’s a Mini Adventure…

Tony, another barman, was slumped on a designer couch with his head tilted to the ceiling and his eyes closed. I guessed he hung around at Dave’s a lot. “That fucking manager, man, he does more harm than good. All I was doing was pointing that 700 out… He started to bitch…”

On my induction a couple of weeks ago, I was given some till roll with a list of commands scrawled on it.

600- Break
68- We are out of
86- I’ve replenished
150- Get manager, change needed
Shoes- Breasts
700- Fine lady

These kind of commands would be barked at the bar backs like we were trainee marines. I’d spent a fair bit of time learning them, getting me even further behind with coursework.

Dave had pulled out a small black plastic bag the size of a bank bag and a credit card. “Aw, he’s a fucking knobhead. He tried it with me. I just said, ‘yeah, you’re a fucking knobhead, aren’t you?’ He just smiled and walked off! He thinks it’s a joke!”

He delicately poured out a lump of fine white powder onto the coffee table. I recognised it pretty quickly.

I’d only dabbled in coke once before, on a night in the previous year when I was utterly wasted on cheap scotch. The girls who lived opposite my flat were putting something up their noses and I’d thought: what the fuck are you doing? Pretending to do coke? You’re a student, there’s no way you could afford that… I had no idea how cheap and accessible it had become.

Dave cut three short lines on the edge of the coffee table then looked up at me. “You joining us?”

Bang. Decision time. Indulge in class-A narcotics? Play it safe? Grasp an opportunity? My brain was accelerated and I hadn’t even touched the stuff yet. “Er…”

“You’re under no pressure.”

Of course I’m not, I thought. You’ve paid for this stuff; you want your money’s worth. I could see Dave had regretted inviting me back: I was a bar back. I didn’t serve on the bar like everyone else in the room. The divide was growing.

“Put a line out for me, I’ll have a think.”

Within seconds I had a line of cocaine pointed at me while everyone else passed around a Fifty, each hoovering their own. Images from the films ran through my mind on fast forward: Mia Wallace with blood and puke streaming from her unconscious face, some guy in Boogie Nights crying over a dying girl while Burt Reynolds stands over them, apathetic… Mia Wallace snorted heroin. That girl in Boogie Nights did too much coke. This was one line. I imagined the phone call to my home back in Oldham, waking my parents up… My parents rushing to a hospital in Manchester… Get a fucking grip, I thought.

The bar staff were getting giddy, and childish. I was trying to find their wavelength on my own mental tuning band, but it wasn’t happening.

“What the fuck goes in a Cosmo now?” Dave was looking more dangerous by the second. Something wasn’t right but I couldn’t figure out what.

“I think I did one with fucking… grenadine, or something,” said Tony, his welsh accent getting stronger. “Is that not right?”

“Didn’t know we had any fucking grenadine.”

“I fucking put allsorts in tonight. Fucking Scotch, Orange Juice…”

His face is a mask of mock confusion, and he’s acting as if someone is controlling his body. Only they’re not being forcing him to do anything other than mix a cocktail.

I shit you not; this conversation went on for hours. They were obsessed with their jobs: proud and overconfident. But that aversion I felt was tinged with jealousy. The coke was still clinging to my mucus but some of it was working through me. The initial feeling of caution had heightened into a kind of paranoia. Was there some side to their conversation that I don’t get? While Tony was in the throes of his bartending mime, Dave was on the verge of pissing himself. I, on the other hand, was on the verge of disappearing into the background.

The sun came up eventually. I’d watched the clock go full circle a few times and I just wanted to be around other members of staff. I was thinking, once we get on that coach and get out to that party, I’ll be with the bar backs. The tension will be off and I’ll probably have come down from this bastard drug.

Trying to figure out how we would be ready in time for 5pm (the coach’s leaving time) was a massive operation- everyone’s brains had ceased to work. Tony needed to get to his and change. He had a spare rugby top for me, I needed to get back to Castle Irwell (student digs) and shower/ dump my work clothes, then we needed to meet at the Mark Addy for lunch.
This blurred by, and I found myself in the Addy (yes, named after the fat one from Full Monty) ordering pub food dressed as a NZ All-blacks player. One of Dave’s friends, a girl he went to uni with (he dropped out after the Living Room lifestyle sucked him in, apparently) was telling me she’d been to Salford, studied media and now worked for Century FM. That must be her car then, I thought.

I was still feeling outdone by Dave and Tony. I couldn’t even flirt with this Century girl ‘cause I was so exhausted and confused. The public started to stare as we strolled through Manchester towards the Living Room in Shorts and T-shirts. Maybe I’m just a shallow, narcissistic bastard, but I’m quite comfortable being stared at when I know why people are looking at me. I kind of thrive of it.

The Living room was full of staff. The entrance was clogged with what looked like rugby players and schoolgirls, with a few bemused customers eyeing us suspiciously. One of the bar-backs had come in a suit. The girls looked fucking amazing in pleated skirts, blouses and ties. They were locked into a specific conversation about something- there was no way I could cut in. They might even have engineered it that way when they saw me coming, I thought. No. That’s the coke making me think that. Rationalise. Calm down.

The manager shouts that the coach is here and we slam our drinks down and walk out. Dave and Tony were already on the coach and had occupied the back seats with a few others- I could not be arsed to try and cut back in there. I’m trying to find a seat near the bar backs but things aren’t working out. So began a silent 4-hr journey to Birmingham…

To this day I can’t figure out what happened exactly at Birmingham. My waterproof was the only thing with pockets in, and I’m sure I left it on the coach. So I seemingly didn’t buy a single drink all night, and I apparently ran the risk of having my wallet nicked from the coach driver. It was a blur.

We started drinking in a Wetherspoons close to the Living Room. The place was crawling with people in school uniform, sports kits, and suits: a warm-up venue for all of the Living Room staff from across Britain. I found I could actually talk to random girls that, at the time, I could never do. We had the workplace in common.

I was getting somewhere with a group of Liverpudlian schoolgirls when it occurred to me I didn’t recognise anyone any more. Thanks for the fucking loyalty, I thought. No one came to tell me we were moving on. I managed to find my way to the Living Room myself without getting lost in a strange city while twisted on drugs and sleep deprived, which was an achievement.

Birmingham’s Living Room was immense. It was more of a club than a bar or restaurant, with a large dance floor. The music was terrible, which surprised me because a lot of the time it was the music that would get me through the shifts at Living Room. Dave and Tony were still ignoring me.

I’d been doing laps of the dance floor and having brief, broken conversations with people who looked vaguely familiar from work, then got dragged out to dance with two of the waitresses, who looked way too young to be doing bar work.

A few days previous to this, I’d read an article about a scientific experiment with some coffee drinkers. The scientists gave the subjects decaf. They told the subjects that they were drinking decaf. An hour later they gave them decaf again, only this time they told the subjects they were drinking caffeine. The subjects started to perk up, be more alert, and performed better in tests. The proof: most of the “effect” of caffeine is self- induced. The same can apply to drugs. So around 20 hours after doing one line, I still felt hyper and on edge. But none of these people were experiencing it with me.

Feeling somewhat detached from reality, I look for a way to mix in. Then these waitresses grabbed me and I was dancing, a bit too provocatively (does a guy do that, or is there another adjective?) with both of them. I could sense nervous glances from across the room- there was a problem of sorts but the girls were still dancing with me, so it can’t have been that bad…
The night blurs on. I’ve just come back from the Gent’s and as I walk back to the dance floor, I nod at the blonde girl walking past. She’s possibly the drunkest person in the room, and she’s amongst the best looking.

She holds my hand and leads me somewhere. This could be the girl I’ve been looking for, I’m thinking. But whatever she’s got in mind, why pick me? And where are we going?

She pushes a fire exit door at the back of the bar and leads me into a stone corridor. The music’s distant now, and I can hear her mumbling something to me. She might be Swedish or something- she ’s not making any sense and she looks like she could be Swedish. I’m practically propping her up while she mumbles at me. Then, resting her head on my shoulders, she starts to lift her skirt.

“Look, er, you’re really drunk and uh…”

She’s pulling down her underwear. I look over to the fire exit door. They’d have a pretty good view if anyone walked in now. I could see the headline: “Bar worker jailed after drunken, drug fuelled molestation”…

She’s got her back against the wall. She squats, and urinates on the concrete floor.
I’m thrown. I feel kind of relieved, amused and let down at the same time. I don’t know how to react, other than to step back away from the stream to keep my shoes dry.

What a fucking night, I’m thinking. She pulls her underwear back up and grabs my hand again, not looking at me. When we get back inside she lets go and immediately some guy starts cracking on to her. She wanders off to dance with him. He’s sober enough to see how drunk she is. He’s trying it on with her in front of the whole bar. I’m hoping everyone who knows him can see him, the fucking scumbag.

Not long after, the music stops. I realise how much time has gone by- hours of my life are missing. What the hell happened in this bar? I’m confused about something. Something is missing, something material but I can’t figure out what.

People are dripping out of the club. I’m following them out to the street. It’s cold.
BANG. My coat. I had a coat. I must have done- I’ve got no pockets on these shorts, and I wouldn’t have spent all night in a bar without any money?

Would I?

I’m just about to get on the bus when I realise I’ve got to go back. I explain what I think I’ve done to Neil, one of the managers, and he already looks pissed off with me.

“Be VERY quick, Matt,” he says, and there’s something in his voice telling me the hold-up I’m about to give him isn’t the only problem.

I turn into the T-1000 from Terminator 2 and sprint back to the building, explaining the problem to the doormen. I leave my name, mobile number, branch details and coat details to a doorman. He says they’ll ring Living Room Manchester or me at some point.

The coat had cost me a fucking fortune from Blacks on Deansgate. I’m gutted. I sprint back to the coach and sat in exactly the same seat. We pull out of Birmingham centre and I consider how I’m going to break this to my mum. I have no recollection of how I’d lost it. Despair hits me. I slump in the chair.

The street lights flash rhythmically into the coach as we drive down a road onto the motorway. There is something on the floor in front of me, small, dark and square.

I pick it up. My wallet. Complete with all cards and cash. You lucky fucking bastard, I think. Well.
It’s a start.

“Becky”.

The manager looks up. I hold the wallet up.

“I found my wallet.”

“Right, okay.” I get the impression I’d not told her in the first place.

“Hi.”

I jump a little. The waitress is sat next to me, who I vaguely remember being on the dance floor with. Of course, by this time, what I’d done is a blur. Is she pissed off with me?

“Hi, you alright?”

“My dad’s not too impressed with you.”

I’m confused. “Your dad?”

“Yeah. Neil. The manager.”

Oh, shit.

“Because of how you were dancing with me. He was going to come over and say something.” A pause. “I am only 16, you know”.

The voice in my mind saying 16 IS LEGAL is drowned out by another side of my conscience saying THE WHOLE BAR SAW YOU FLIRTING GRATUITOUSLY WITH THE MANAGER’S DAUGHTER, 5 YEARS YOUR JUNIOR. THIS INCLUDES THE MANAGER.

“He was going to have a word with you when we were in the bar.”

I’m hitting another phase of nervous quietness. How can I get out of this company in a clean, reasonable manner? I need to stay out of trouble. I close my eyes, head tilted back, and try to clear out my mind.

When I open my eyes, I’m staring at some kind of cord dangling from an overhead compartment. It’s opposite me but a bit further down, possibly above where I was sitting on the way down. It has a toggle on it that looks very familiar. I have no recollection of putting anything up there, but if it’s not mine, I can always apologise.

I tentatively pull it down. Green Sprayway. There is no way that this isn’t mine. I’m smiling, relieved. There are a lot of things confusing me but at least I’ve got everything I lost back.

I just want to get back to my digs now. I connect to people at Uni. I have my blatant differences, sure, but I still fit in. I’m not fitting in at Living Room. I need sleep. Then I need to think about what I’m going to do.

Flashback of August Bank Holiday

The following is an email exchange and a prized story of weekend excess, told through the medium of email. Please enjoy.

MY EMAIL TO TOM

From: “Matthew Tuckey”
To: thomasleecharnock@hotmail.com
Subject: fellatio
Date: Tue, 29 Aug 2006 11:11:57 +0100

Oh. My. God.
Mate, this weekend has been fucking absurdly awesome.
Saw Pride on sat, +went 2 commonwealth stadium with key spreading messages etc. Was pretty cool, but nothing like sun nyt.

Cowboy night in walkabout. Chicks LOVE cowboys! I shit you not, I pulled a couple of girls and 2 top it off, some girl pulled my pants to my ankles and sucked my cock on stage. What. the . fuck. Didn’t exactly get wood but wen you’ve got a crowd of people watching that’s not the easiest thing to do. I took it in my stride! had my hat, my neckerchief n 1 of my guns nicked off me. bitches!

Swapped numbers with some other girl, who hasn’t rang me yet so iv got the feeling she wont pick up. She probably saw me do something absurd and thought, fuck that, he’s a psycho…

After we’d cleaned up the staff all went to the “staff house” where the manager n the Aussies live. There we proceeded to ingest cocaine n swapped stories, then I went home n laughed myself to sleep at about 7am.

Last night the manager of walkabout donated some ecstasy to me, although Christ knows wen I’ll use it. Party on!

How was ur weekend?

TOM’S EMAIL REPLY

Fuckin hell mate – that’s a fuckin ace story!!! Gotta hand it to ya mate, I’m impressed!!! I didn’t really do much except go to the gym, go, swimming, go running blah blah boring blah. Went to a sort of party at my bro’s on saturday night and got hideously pissed. didn’t get back till 5 and all around me people were smokin weed, taking pills and snortin coke…alas, with my impending military engagement I was sadly excluded from said activities. Sunday night I just sat watching tv. Monday I just sat watchin TV. Good eh? That’s because everyone I know around here is a boring cunt. Anyway, we’ll have to go out again some time soon. Probably gonna be havin a house party in mid sept to mark my and duressa’s leaving of our house, and you are cordially invited, along with any guests you wana bring. I’l give exact details asap.

Peace
———

I thought it might be novel to show a story unfold through email. Also, I could not be arsed rewriting it- I have other tales to tell that require my time. Here’s what writers on Urbis.com thought:

“Not sure what you could do with this, but it gave me a few laughs although I feel obligated to include the disclaimer that I don’t find drug use funny.“- “Nani”.

“I hate it when everyone you know is a boring cunt! Haha.“- “aliciapie23”.

“DCAllen”s response was so classic I had to include the whole thing. Cheers dude.

“No, this doesn’t bite me on the nose. In fact, it just makes me a bit embarrassed for you. I wonder why you posted this at all: to document the lives of two boring people, I suppose. Because you were drunk when you pushed “Submit”? Because you really don’t care what people write, and you don’t plan to even open your reviews?

Don’t get me wrong: I love dirty. If there had been a spark of eloquence here, I might have reacted differently. As it’s written, it’s simply banal.

While this should have been marked Mature, I can see why you couldn’t bring yourself to call it that.”

“Banal” is a word that recurs frequently in the reviews I receive, for some reason. But hey, at least I’m honest. It is my honesty that drives me to write. If this makes you uncomfortable, then I guess I’ve succeeded, to a degree.

Claim to Fame

They’d already barred me before, the twats. All I’d done was resign. But I’d not even waited for the three-month bar to lift. I’d just walked back in about 6 weeks after leaving. I even shook the doorman’s hand on entry.

The staff in Baa Bar, even the managers, seemed so jaded by everything. The week before, twenty-or-so gangster wannabes were beating the shit out of each other outside the entrance with the majority of customers watching through the immense glass doors. Every night the obligatory puke king (or queen) slipped in their own vomit in the staircase, which only heightened the sickening level of pretence held by the customers despite the fact that they were paying a pound a time for a shot with hardly any alcohol in. All of this played out between the exposed brick walls and beneath twenty rotating disco balls, scattering blotches of light in every direction and heightening the effects of the cheap drink. There are a lot of distractions. Who can blame the doormen for letting me back in again? I still don’t know why they bothered to bar me.
We’d sat down on these poofs, watching women get drunk and opportunities pass us by. But when someone passed me by a bit too closely, it wasn’t a woman. It was a man. A big, black man. He’d caught himself on my toe, stumbling forward for a second.

I gulped. I saw what this looked like. I could tell, however, that he did not. I held my hands up in confused apology. He leaned into me until I could see every angry feature in his face.

Slap.

His fingers hit my cheek lightly. A man like that could have ripped my head off in a second, and probably thought nothing of it. He might not even remember it in the morning. I watched him traipse off to the bar.

Paralysing fear was still eminent behind Toby’s eyes. But the fear I felt had morphed into something else. Anger. Disgust. Who the fuck was that? In this bar, I thought, no scally gives me shit. No matter how big they are.

I got out of my seat.

“I’m not standing for that,” I said, and marched to the door.

Ben was on security- a guy more-or less my age but twice my size. I told him what had happened and he called his team mate over.

“’Ave a mooch around for him,” said the man, who must have been edging on the minimum weight requirement for a doorman. “Tell me what he looks like, and I’ll throw him out.”

I found the guy propping up the corner of the bar. He was less discreet than he was clearly hoping, standing in front of a giant poster featuring a multicoloured alcoholic shot.

Good, I thought. You waste a few extra quid. Let’s see it all kick off now.

I backed off to the doormen.

“He’s big, he’s black, he’s bald,” I said. I was starting to sound like Bret, the victim of the hitmen in Pulp Fiction. “And he’s wearing a long-sleeve, dark green t-shirt with little holes in it. He’s at that corner of the bar.” I pointed.

I waited in the middle of the bar with Ben as the other doorman pushed his way to the corner. After reaching the individual, it was obvious from the doorman’s face that he had begun to administer a fair bollocking to said scally. This was despite the fact that he towered a full head over the doorman.

I couldn’t help but think: where do people get the balls to act like that- to take the risk of getting filled in without even showing a glimmer of weakness or fear? Doormen must possess something that removes the thought of defeat from their minds- to solve a problem, regardless of risk.

Whatever it is they have, it works. The scally didn’t even argue. He put down the bottle that he’d only just been served, and walked out past me on his own. He didn’t glance at me as he walked out, but I watched him walk down onto the street and disappear from view. I didn’t fancy being thrown into the canal by some angry meathead.

The doormen were also monitoring his departure, but there was something I’d missed in all of this- some extra nougat of curiosity that the doormen were chewing over.

The doorman who spoke to him came back to me.

“Do you know who he was?”

“Nope,” I said, “Never seen him before.”

“He’s Trevor Sinclair. He plays for England.”

I could practically feel the comedy cash signs appearing in my eyeballs. I tried to stay calm.

Let’s not jump to conclusions, I thought. It might not be him. I might not be able to sue the shit out of him, or get my name in the paper. But I’m damn well going to try. Fucking footballers.

Toby had already texted Stu, our seemingly agoraphobic housemate, with our involved level of celebrity happenings. From the confines of his safe, comfortable room, Stu replied simply-

“Bollocks mate. Trevor Sinclair plays for West Ham.”

He could be right, I thought. West Ham is a 200-mile trek from Manchester.

I tried to cast my mind back to the footage of the World Cup in Japan the year before. I’d actually watched every England game, including their inevitable defeat at the hands of Brazil in the quarterfinals. It was the only time I’d ever paid any attention to football.

He wasn’t big enough to be Emile Heskey, but Sinclair? Maybe, from what I could remember.
We had caused enough trouble in the short space of time we’d been in the bar. It was time to
make our own exit.

I shook Ben’s hand. “Thanks for the help tonight, mate,” I said.

“No problem. Seriously mate. Go to the press. You’ll make a fucking mint.”

“Will do.”

Fear. Disgust. Surprise… and now anticipation. What a night.

I kept checking over my shoulder as I walked back to the flat. The last thing I wanted was to be jumped by some angry A-list footballer with a vendetta. The first thing I wanted was to laugh myself to sleep.

The next day I dragged Toby down Deansgate to the offices of the Manchester Evening News, as my witness. I was put in touch with Nicola Dowling, a journalist who told me she would try to find out where Trevor Sinclair was last night. In the reception area of the M.E.N, I fed her the details of the night.

Like most journalists Ms Dowling was somewhat of a law expert.

“I obviously can’t phone Trevor Sinclair,” she said, miming holding a phone, “and say, ‘Oh, hello Mr. Sinclair. You wouldn’t happen to have been in Baa Bar last night, would you?’ ‘cause he isn’t going to want to talk to me. So I’m going to have to do some sneaking around. The bar won’t want to talk to me, ‘cause that would be bad publicity for them. So I’m going to have to do some sneaking around. But I’ve got your details, and I’ll be in touch.”

I felt slightly unnerved- not at the thought of getting Trevor Sinclair angrier, but because I’d been given another snapshot of the working world of media. I knew that my uni course, Media Production, was not preparing me for anything as professional as this.

And that’s as far as it went. Because of the aforementioned legal issues, the article remained unpublished. Sorry Ms Dowling, I’ve potentially plagiarised your work here. But as Doctor Alban would say, it’s my life.

I never found out for sure whether the culprit really was Trevor Sinclair, although Sinclair himself allegedly pulled out of a training session the next day due to injury…