I should be celebrating but all I can think about is the impending doom of Monday. The lads off the football team are still buzzing from our 3-2 victory earlier but it’s the furthest thing from my mind. I’m on what must be my seventh pint but it’s not having the desired effect I require. That I need.
“What’s up with you chief?” Glen asks.
“Nothing much, I’m just tired that’s all.” I couldn’t be arsed explaining the situation as he doesn’t know what I do anyway. By the time I re-educate him on the fact that I work in a funds company and not a bank I’ll have lost him and bored myself in the process. The only thing worse than being in work is talking about work. I head to the bar and get myself another pint and two shots of Morgan Spiced for good measure. The club is packed with wall-to-wall cock and any half decent bird is plagued by potential suitors looking for a quick drunken fumble. Among the chasing pack, I see Rob and Luke chatting up a couple of birds just off the dance floor, although I’m sure Luke is the one doing all the chasing and chatting. Rob’s poster boy looks ensure he doesn’t need to. I don’t even need to be present to know what’s being said-I’ve seen it all a million times before. Luke probably reeled them in, the girls took the bait having seen the wingman, and Rob clobbers them over the head with his oar. The result never differs although Luke tries his best to throw a spanner in the works by questioning Rob’s sexuality, or through snide petty remarks. Watching the two of them in action only reaffirms my decision to stay away from them. The majority of the time nothing ever comes from the situation and I don’t have the self-restraint of Rob to continuously let Luke cock block me.
If anything his fortitude to undermine me would only make me more determined to impress the girl in question. 50 cent’s ‘In the club’ reverberates around the club and is greeted in the same old predictable manner-everyone rushes to the floor. The men look like they’re playing imaginary basketball with one hand, but never seem to have the ball under control as their hand constantly rises up over their heads only to slam back down again. There are pockets of variation around the floor; some guys fold their arms and nod their heads, while others try to bump and grind. Occasionally there’s one or two dicks who intentionally dance out of sync, flap like a chicken, or spin around on their backs in a sad attempt to be funny different. These losers always fit the same profile; they’re either too fat to pull, a culchie up in the big smoke for the first time, or some rugger buggers out celebrating a rare Leinster triumph.
The girls all dance like they’ve been rolled off the Ford assembly line. They hunt in groups, shake their asses, and throw a few shapes every once in a while for good measure. The only time any of them are animated is when they think they’ve lost their handbag or they’ve been slapped on the ass. I scan around the club for potential fodder but am quickly disappointed. The good looking ones are too busy dancing with themselves in the mirror to notice anyone one else. Even if you do succeed in seducing them away from themselves you regret it straight away. They ask questions that would make a taxman flush-what do you do for a living? How much do you earn? Do you have your own place? What car have you got? Judging and rating me when they probably pack bags in Dunne’s stores for a living. Each and every one of them first up on to the dance floor to Destiny’s Child’s “Independent Women” yet go out with empty purses every week, getting drunk on weak-willed men’s hard-earned Euros. These women are the real whores of the 21st century exchanging their looks, and bodies for drink and status. The only difference between them and girls working the street corners is the corner girls have more class-they’re upfront from the start in what they want.
The sluts are already in full swing and are practically handing out tickets on themselves-give it another hour and even moonpig’s will be doing the same.
I’m beginning to feel a nice warm glow as the alcohol takes over-fuck it another Morgan Spiced and I’ll be doing the mashed potato with the rest of the culchie misfits.
My attention is immediately drawn by a sexy brunette in the distance, away in one of the quieter corners. She’s wearing a nice sleek black number, plain but not understated. Even though I’m across the other side of the dance floor I can tell that she’s too good for this place. I make my way towards her and it’s only then do I notice her chest, which ironically she actually brings to my attention by propping up her dress strap to give her the required support. She downs a shot in one while I dwell over the possibilities;
A: She’s had enough of the dance floor meat mart.
B: She’s sick of her friends.
C: She didn’t get the attention she thought she deserved, and her ego’s slightly dented.
Either way all the odds are clearly stacked in my favour. I finish off my pint and swoop in for the kill.
“What’s wrong 50 Cent not your cup of tea? You more of a Scooter kind of girl?”
She turns around and smiles. Her face is so radiant and lush that if I wasn’t so drunk I’d be bowled over by her natural beauty.
“Nah I’m more of a Ludacris kind of girl. Fiddy cent is straight up whack.” She says.
I return the smile and am delighted to see she has a sense of humour, but most importantly isn’t breaking my balls.
“I like him but I don’t agree with his views on the police-I think they do the best they can with limited resources and have very testing targets.”
“True, but his plans on economic reform are ground breaking.”
“I don’t know. The bulk buying of weed doesn’t seem like the ideal stimulus plan to me.”
She laughs and I can tell that her guard is beginning to drop.
“It’s Rachael by the way.”
“Friends call me Tony but you can call me Anthony.”
“Well I hardly think it’s fair to the rest of my friends if I let someone I don’t even know call me Tony after 30 seconds. So what is an intelligent (if not misguided) girl like yourself doing downing shots on your own?”
“I needed a break from the constant mauling, and my ass is sore from all the slapping.”
“Jesus it must be awful being so damned irresistible? And to think there’s thousands of fat girls crying into their Ben and Jerry’s when they have absolutely no idea what trials and tribulations the beautiful people go through.”
“That’s not what I meant, and besides those animals would get up on Jo Brand as long as she flashed some skin.”
Sexy and funny-I’m beginning to think this girl is the one.
“On seconds thoughts I’m going to let you call me Tony but only on one condition.”
“You buy me a drink.”
I pray my reverse psychological warfare will do the trick.
“Okay then Tony what’ll it be?”
“You decide. But so you know just because you’re buying me a drink it doesn’t mean I’m going to put out later.”
We hit the bar and she orders four shots of Aftershock. Fuck, anything but Aftershock.
We clink glasses and I down my two drinks, one after the other, with the previous shot nearly coming back up before the next one has even gone down. I can feel my eyes water.
“Cheers for that, I think…” I say.
“No problem at all.”
I return the favour and buy four baby Guinness but before the bartender’s finished pouring the shots Rachel takes charge of the situation and kisses me-she is definitely the one. I pull her up against me as our tongues probe and tangle but the vile taste of aftershock is enough to make me get sick. If I don’t pull away now she’s going to be swallowing more than my tongue.
“Easy tiger I still have to pay the barman.” I slam down a twenty and tell her that “I’ll be back in a second”. I confidently stroll off until out of sight and then dash straight for the jacks. I burst straight into the first available cubicle and lunge for the toilet but cough up nothing more than Aftershock coated saliva. After a few dry heaves I put the toilet lid down, take a seat and gently rub my stomach.
“Come on chief time to get a move on.” I can feel my arm being tugged and look up to see someone who looks like Glen. “What? What? My arm? Why? What?” I say.
“Hurry up before the bouncers come in.” I open my eyes as wide as I can and the brightness of the lights makes me wince.
“What happened?”
“You fell asleep in the jacks again. Now come on.”
I follow Glen’s lead like a mummy and stagger and sway until we’re at the cloakroom.
“Now wait there,” he says.
The five or so minutes Glen’s gone at the cloakroom sober me up enough to grip my bearings. The club is now empty except for a few stragglers; the lights are on, and the music has stopped.
“How did you know I was in there?”
“I overheard the flunky-handing out towels-moaning about someone being in a toilet cubicle for over an hour while I was having a piss. When I rang your mobile and got no answer I knew it’d be you.”
“Nice one Glen. You don’t happen to know what happened with Rebecca do you?”
“Rebecca? Nah last time I saw you chief you were moping over a pint.”
We leave the club but outside its chaos and it’ll be at least an hour before we get a taxi so we head to a diner. Glen gets a basic cheese pizza as I watch on enviously. I’m starving but my stomach is in knots. I run my tongue idly around my mouth as I wait for Glen to finish, and can still taste the Aftershock while I think about Rebecca.
I’m wide awake. I lie patiently on my bed trying to coax myself back asleep but my curiosity gets the better of me and I check my clock which flashes 10:37. I double check it to make sure as I only got in less than five hours ago, but the clock stays the same. I can feel the warm flow of alcohol coursing through my body, making it impossible to sleep. I lie perfectly still for another twenty minutes but to no avail. Last night’s failure with Rebecca is too fresh in the memory. I antagonise over the whole situation replaying every line I used, analysing and deconstructing every word. All in all I’m happy with most my choices except for “you decide”. Those two words took the situation out of my control and left me confined to the toilet for the night. My greedy need for another drink yet again fucked up my chances. I start to stroke my cock thinking about Rebecca and what could have been, but my libido is nowhere to be found. I continue to plug away but I don’t even have a semi which makes it more of a work out then a wank. I come eventually leaving me sweaty and dizzy but overall the exertion only serves to compound my hangover.
The rest of the day is spent trying to occupy myself from thinking about work tomorrow.
However, everything I try to do is handicapped by my hangover and lack of sleep. I settle on occupying the couch like a wounded soldier and lose myself in mind-numbing TV; reality spin-offs on MTV, far-fetched films, and below par football. The harder I try to stretch the day out the faster the hours seem to fade away.

Previous chapter.

From the beginning.

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