Another story from my clubbing days and this one is definitely not for the faint hearted.
And I should immediately stress, I am not directly involved in this one, it’s about some people I know, so the names have been changed to protect the innocent.
You’ll see why I’m so keen to disassociate myself from any direct involvement in this one shortly. But first, a wee litmus test.
Watch this (poorly captured – sorry!) clip. If you’re like Partridge at the start of the clip, do not read on. If you’re like Partridge at the end of the clip, you’ll probably be ok. By the end of this, you will know if today’s story is for you or not.
Still here? Ok, then I’ll continue.
The first thing I’d say is: each to their own. If that’s how you get your kicks, fill your boots. Wellingtons or waders. Assuming it’s all consensual, of course.
As I said, I need to change the name of the two main protagonists in this one. I don’t actually know the name of one of them, which makes things slightly less complicated. And as for the other – well, this is set in Wales and he had a good stout, traditional Welsh surname, y’know like Jones, Williams, Evans.
Evans – that’ll do. And, categorically, it is not the actual name of the person involved.
I first met ‘Evans’ in a club in Cardiff, The Emporium in case you’re interested. Possibly the finest club ever to exist, but I’ll get into why that is another time.
So, I first meet ‘Evans’ there, but I’m already aware who he is as he works for the same company as me. But this night is the first time I’ve ever actually spoken to him.
And I say “to” quite correctly here, because seconds after we’re introduced, it becomes very obvious that ‘Evans’ has taken something and he is not doing okay on it. Sporadically and unpredictably, he seems angry, destructive, possibly homicidal, definitely suicidal.
Though ‘off my nut’ myself, I spend the rest of the night making sure he’s ok, talking him through it, calming him down, and by the end of the night, as he’s coming down, he’s fine. I’ll be honest, I’d not had the greatest night out of my life, but knowing that ‘Evans’ wasn’t about to throw himself in front of a speeding car was satisfaction enough.
Over the next few months, Evans doesn’t exactly join the little group I’m with, but he’s sort of on the peripherals. We all know his history and look out for him. Because that’s what you do.
Enter the other player in this story. A woman who many would say was too old to still be clubbing, but when you’re on pills you’re remarkably non-judgemental about that kind of thing. I’d place her in her 50s at best, maybe her 60s, possibly her 70s. If not, she’s had a really tough life.
We would see her, but not speak to her, every time we went to this particular club night.
And then one night, when I was out with my mate Rob, this:
“Did you hear about ‘Evans’?”
I feared the worst.
“You know that really old looking woman who always turns up here at about 1 in the morning?”
I am aghast.
“No……! He didn’t….did he……?”
Rob looks at me and nods.
“But it’s better than that,” he says.
And then he tells me.
Evans and this older lady had gone home together. Nothing wrong with that, whatever tickles your fancy and all that.
Sorry, but I need to be fairly graphic now, and as an Englishman that does not sit comfortably.
Let’s say that ‘Evans’ and the pensioner are involved in the physical act of love. He is lying on his back, and she is astride him.
And then she lifts herself off of him, and scooches upwards, so that she is over his chest.
Where, without asking if it’s ok, or even checking that the bedding is waterproof, she just let’s go.
And ‘Evans’ is drenched in pensioner piss.
Look, I’m not here to judge. Maybe it’s fine. Maybe she didn’t think she could make it to the toilet in time. We’ve all been there (I don’t mean astride ‘Evans’). Maybe ‘Evans’ was okay with it (he wasn’t, he definitely wasn’t, which is why I know about it).
This was maybe 15 years ago, which leads me to ask: societally, when did we get to the point where we cared so little about our fellow man, and so much about our own gratification, that we don’t even bother to ask permission before we urinate on someone?
For the record: it’s not okay. My waterproof top-sheet is my own business and nobody else’s.
Let’s have a tune, and I suppose I’d make it an absolute belter to justify everything you’ve just read/endured:
With apologies to anyone who can never hear this tune again without that image.
More soon! Less yucky, I promise.