30 July, 2008
Wasted On The Weekend
An Extract From Shaun's As Yet Unpublished, But AWESOME, Novel.
It's almost August, and what better way to celebrate it than by releasing an extract of my as-yet-unpublished, but freakishly brilliant novel, called Wasted on the Weekend? The story focuses on protagonist Dave, our reluctant anti-hero who struggles to accept the fact that getting wasted on the weekend will not suffice any longer, and in fact, his life is being WASTED on the WEEKEND. (See what I did there?) It's a 200 page epic journey of discovery, and I'm about 60% of the way done, so here with just a taste of what some people are calling the "greatest book ever written - well, since the Bible, at least."
Read and enjoy...
I just spilt my drink on myself. F*ck. This happens every time we go out. I nonchalantly try and wipe my shirt, pretending that nothing’s happened but it’s too late. Shane has already spotted me and has physically wet himself with laughter, which annoys me as it happens so often it can’t be that funny any more can it? With a shrug I ignore his guffaws and turn to Ryan, who’s been eyeing the leggy blonde at the next table for the last half hour. She’s not bad looking, with a tight-fitting white blouse which shows off her curves, and a short black skirt complimenting her shapely thighs. She’s been downing tequila shots with her three girlfriends, who are all dogs, so she’s definitely the pick of the bunch.
If Ryan displays his usual ineptitude, I might make a move myself I think. I’m about to send Ryan to the bar, but he’s up before I open my mouth. He saunters over toward the blonde’s table. Shane, who’s stopped laughing by now thank God, sits up and looks at me with a bemused expression. Ryan’s not the type of guy to just brazenly walk up to someone and chat them up. Although regarded by many as the “looker” in our little trio – a moniker which I find quite offensive – he sadly lacks any semblance of self confidence. I suspect it has something to do with his webbed toes and all those traumatic days in swimming class, but I’m not keen on probing too much, I’m not a therapist and I don’t really have any interest in his mental well being.
Ryan is almost at the table. The three hyenas are laughing hysterically at some or other anecdote being told. He’s at the table… and then he’s gone. I smile to myself as he walks past the leggy blonde and moves on to the bar. A typical, and rather pathetic little move he likes to pull. To alleviate his fear of rejection, he needs absolute confirmation that a girl is interested in him. This was the first play in his little rule book – the casual walk passed hoping to make some eye contact.
In his warped mind, if she is interested she would have maintained eye contact for two or three seconds longer than normal. He will probably be hovering around her line of sight for the rest of the night now, waiting for her to make the first move. Ryan comes back to our table with the beers, with a satisfied smile on his face, which obviously means she gave him a look. “I do believe she’s into me” he tells us rather pompously, as I take a gulp of my beer. I feel like punching him in the solar plexus for that pathetic little play, but I manage to compose myself. It’s Friday night in the middle of the hottest summer in decades, and the year is almost at an end, it’s a long weekend and things are looking good. I’ve just received a promotion at the firm I work at, so naturally I’m in a cheerful mood.
Shane, Ryan and myself have been clubbing in this same strip for the last two years. Strangely, we’ve never tired of the place, what with the cheap booze, easy women and about five or six clubs all within walking distance. This is our first stop, Goodfellas, a sort of bar/pub where we normally get the ball rolling for the night. We’ve been here for about an hour now, and my beer level is rising to a suitable level.
“Shit Dave, look who’s here” Shane says as I’m interrupted from my reflective state of mind. It’s Claire, my “stalker” if you will. I met her here one night about a year ago, fed her some cheesey lines about how beautiful her eyes were, what an angel she was – the type of superficial bullshit that chicks like her love to hear. It clearly did the trick as I tapped her that very night on the hard wooden floor of my lounge (my bed was filthy, but I still gave her the best 45 seconds of her life), and went out with her a few times after that. (I pushed my record up to a minute thirty on our third date) The sex was obviously great as she suddenly turned from sweet, sexy Claire into uber-psycho Claire and I couldn’t adjust my ball sack without her wanting to know what I was doing. We broke up when she threatened to knife said ball sack (they’re precious to me) and I spent the following weeks in a fearful state at home, watching the Friday night movie, and reassuring my penis that everything was going to be okay. She’s since calmed down and apologized to me but I still find myself urinating in my pants a little whenever I see her.
She sees me and comes over. “Hi there” she says and I give her the biggest smile I can muster. “Hi Claire, how are you doing?” I ask, not really caring but obliged to ask all the same. Unfortunately, Claire is part of that small percentage of people in the world, who think that the question, “How are you”, requires them to actually tell you what their mental state of mind is at that point in time. For the next ten minutes I am forced to listen to her telling me about what’s been going on in her life, from her cat she has just bought to the boyfriend she has just broken up with.
Although tempted to fling myself out through the nearby window, I restrain myself and just nod sympathetically. She is boring the pants off me - I can actually feel them wriggling down my waist - and so I desperately try and end the conversation using a tried and trusted technique I’ve developed over the years. This involves looking directly over her shoulder as if someone’s just caught my attention and cutting off her sentences with words like “ – anyway” and “ - yeeeah” – which I stretch out long and slowly. If this doesn’t work I will contemplate using my last desperate tactic of collapsing on the floor in a state of utter inebriation. This has been known to kill any conversation in it’s tracks, but it’s too early in the night to be that drunk - and besides - the floor at Goodfellas is notoriously filthy. Also, I’m wearing a lovely white shirt which I just purchased a few days before so that is clearly not an option. I notice the beer bottle in my hand and begin contemplating what she would do if I had to suddenly poke her with it – not painfully, I’d never hit a woman – just a little poke which would make me look really strange and would make her want to get away from me. Thankfully, Claire finally finishes he little mini rant about love and life and goes off with to the bar with friends. I breathe easier as I see her go and my balls hang loose from their previous tight defensive position, re-adding valuable bulge to my crotch region. (although I still think I soiled myself)
I turn my attention back to my two buddies who are engrossed in a conversation about the pros and cons of wearing shirts as opposed to t-shirts. This remarkably bland topic tells me that the two are starting to feel the copious amount of alcohol we’ve been gulping down. I leave my table and strut over to the bar, trying to look as cool and desirable as is humanly possible. I see three girls I know at the bar and I saunter over to have a chat. As I greet them I realize that I don’t remember their names and I begin to rack my brain as we converse. They are all raven-haired beauties and I’m pretty sure I hooked up with at least two of them some time ago. I know the one had a tattoo of a butterfly on her left thigh, and we had filthy raw sex for at least two minutes if memory serves. The bar is quite busy and as I wait to order, I carry on making inconsequential small talk. They don’t seem to mind, which is probably down to the fact that I slept with two of them. There are also about six empty cider bottles around them, so they are pretty pissed as well, but I think it’s mainly because I slept with two of them
I feel a tap on my shoulder and I turn around to see Gareth, an annoying stain on the underwear that is my life. He’s about the same age as I am, twenty-something, but that’s where the similarities end. He’s a rather annoying piece of work, and for some obscure reason thinks the two of us are buddies. “Hey buddy” he says, thus proving my point, and gives me his familiar little handshake routine, which requires me to have a double jointed thumb and index finger in order to carry it out correctly. “Hey Gareth” I say, with false welcome in my voice, secretly hoping this will be a greeting-in-passing.
I notice with sick horror that one of my dark-haired lovelies is checking him out, giving him a thorough once-over, the type of once-over you give when you want to check out the colour of someone’s bed sheets. Gareth still lives with his mom so his bed sheets will probably be clean and fresh but that’s not the point. He gives her his trademark smile, a toothy, off-white grin which years of nicotine and coffee tends to produce, and introduces himself. At least I’ll be able to get her name now, maybe her friend with the butterfly on her ass as well. Unfortunately my eardrums are hit by the booming voice of 50 Cent over the speakers. Shit, the volume’s just picked up. Can’t hear what she said. Sounded like Melanie. It doesn’t matter though, as I am now totally put off by her interest in Gareth. She clearly had more than two ciders, and she must have smoked 17 joints before arriving here as well. I can’t believe I actually slept with her. Or was it her friend? Did I in fact sleep with her? I’m sorely tempted to ask and confirm my suspicion, but think better of it. I get my drinks and give the girls and Gareth a friendly “speak to you later” which I plan on doing like I plan on getting my prostate checked. I get back to our table and join in on the great shirt / t-shirt debate.
After a few minutes of furious lobbying from both sides, I decide on Ryan’s theory that a good shirt gives the wearer a touch of class which automatically makes them better looking. I suppose I am being rather biased as I am, in fact, wearing a shirt myself, which the other two fail to pick up on. Oh well, I’m convinced it’s a good point anyway, although I believe I might have felt differently had we had this conversation a few hours earlier.
Actually, a few hours earlier we wouldn’t have had this meaningless conversation at all, this being an alcohol induced debate. I suddenly feel very self conscious and look around wearily, in case anyone overheard our engaging conversation topic. Not likely though, as the DJ is now is full swing and the music is blaring. This is a good place to get pissed, not good for dancing though which is probably due to the sticky nature of the floor, as mentioned earlier. We gulp down our beers and head on toward to our next destination, which is just across the road. The night is but a foetus, as my dear old grandmother used to say.
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