Ben's Party (2nd June 2006)

This is not a post about the party that my Ben threw for his birthday - THAT IS NOT IMPORTANT TO THIS STORY. In fact forget about it. Things happened. Some hearts were broken, some allegiances formed, some tears shed, family albums were looked at and tiny penises admired, some conversations had, some gastric juices expunged and some awkward flirting done. That is all taken for granted. It's all you need to know. What is important in this case is the state I was in at about ten past midnight; everyone else was leaving in their taxis and cars or feet. The music was being turned down. A cat was asleep on the floor. I was swaying unsteadily, pretty much rat-arsed, staring with bloodshot unfocussed eyes on the two wheeled contraption that sat in front of me.

"Oh, you knob," I said, rocking quietly from side to side to the baseline of Ben's remix of Bound 2 Da Reload/Sandstorm. I looked about, then gave my bike a little kick just to make sure that it still worked. It fell over. I sighed. Then I did that little drunk dance that you do when you think that nobody is watching - you know, the one when you kind of bob from foot to foot on semi-tiptoes with your arms in a little spazmoidy flipper mode, weaving a bit and trying not to spill your beer down your leg again. Yeah, that dance. Eventually I figured that there was no way that I was going to get out of this, so I unsteadily picked up the bike, swung one leg over the saddle, then overbalanced and tipped sideways onto a wall. Fortunately, I didn't fall all the way over as the wall was in the way so for a few seconds I perched there, both feet on the pedals, my head pressed against the wall at a 45 degree angle, staring intently ahead. I looked like a lean-to. It was a pretty religious experience. A blonde girl walked past me. She looked at me. I looked back. She nodded. I nodded back and fell the rest of the way over. Ohhh dear, I thought. That was certainly not intentional. I quickly got back up - although to be honest there is no smooth way to do that - but the girl Had Gone.

I sighed. Then I realised that I was in no real state to cycle home in the dark. I then realised that I had not turned on either of the lights on the bike. I switched on the front one. It was out of batteries. I switched on the back one. It was out of batteries. Oh, that's a shame, I thought. I put on my helmet. Well, I say 'put on my helmet', I actually meant 'Scratched my head and wondered why I hadn't brought a helmet, working bike lights, or even bright coloured clothes'. However. To cut a long story short about five minutes later I was pedalling down the road from Ben's house as fast as my fat little legs could carry me. This is the story about some things that happened to me on my ride home.

Night cycling. Is anyone getting a sense of deja vu? Oh yeah. I know that I have blogged about this before, but, well, life is circular. The more you spin it, the quicker you get back to where you started. Kind of like the wheel... of a bicycle (that is a good link that would probably get me a few points in my synoptic literature exam). But all of the great masters had to repeat work. Cezanne painted the same apple every five years. Damien Hirst is back to slicing animals in two. Even the musical group 'The Automatic' have released the same basic song three times in a row under different names. Now I am not trying to compare myself to 'The Automatic'; heaven forbid. However I still feel that there is an untapped reserve of material to discuss when talking about cycling home in the dark from a party.

Especially as this time I was drunk! That's the key difference here.

Is cycling drunk illegal? I hope not or else I broke the law. Actually at the party I asked this of some guy who had been in my yeargroup for the past five years but who I had not spoken to ever. His response was "Yes. It is illegal. And if you crash into a car you get turned jewish." At the time he was drinking two beers and a bottle of wine so I do not know how accurate this information was, but wouldn't it be excellent if it was true! Just like some really obscure by-law from Disraeli's Ministry (1874-1880, fact fans THAT'S RIGHT I'VE BEEN REVISING HISTORY). Kind of like that law in that town in Scotland that says it's ok to shoot a Welshman, as long as it it is done on the third Monday of the month with a bow and arrow from the town clocktower. I would love to get pulled over by a policeman who breathalises me, then reads out from his little book "Any man found pedalling a bicycle drunk shall henceforth be converted to Judaism... sorry, sonny, I'm gonna have to take that foreskin".

SORRY this isn't relevent to the story in hand which was what I did when I was drunk cycling home.

It is fascinating the ideas that come to you when you are drunk. For example, making a mixture of biscuits and wine called wiscuitbine (not delicious). Or telling the scary mother of my friend that her sweater looked "Like vomit... seriously, I don't want to be rude, but VOMIT... sick..." [apparently]. Or wearing a top hat and thinking that it looks good. One girl at this party told me that the previous night she and her friend had gotten wasted and then decided to have a three-legged race, and then they'd fallen over and she had nearly broken her nose. At the time, I am sure that it made perfect sense. That's the kind of gold I'm talking about here. So the situation while cycling was that I was obviously wasted, wearing no safety gear, on a bike which was missing a pedal and couldn't switch gears and had questionable braking skills, on a road with very little lighting and lots of drivers who were probably as drunk as I was.

So basically I decided to phone my friend Rose. Now this may not sound crazy, but consider the fact that I'm not great on the phone at the best of times and it basically requires my total concentration to stay on top of the conversation. Also consider the fact that it meant that I lost an all-important hand. Thirdly, consider the fact that I have never ever phoned up anybody out of the blue ever. EVAR. So basically the conversation went along these lines.

ME: HI ROSE.
Rose: What.
ME: I'M CYCLING DRUNK
ROSE: Good.
ME: HOW ARE YOU? WHAT'S GOING ON WITH ROSE?
ROSE: Revising.
ME: HEY CHECK IT OUT NO HA-
ROSE: ??
ME: NO HANDS IS NOT A GOOD IDEA
ROSE: Oh. Well.
ME: HOLY SHIT A LORRY!!!
ROSE: :o

It continued like that. I think I was quite an irritating person to have a phone conversation with. Especially as my phone arms kept getting tired so every two minutes I'd have to put the phone in my mouth and then swap. I also gave a running commentary on every random thing that happened, including bumps in the road, the lack of light, and the license plates of most cars that drove past. It was pretty good. For me. I mean, Rose was not sleeping to hear this shit so I guess that she didn't enjoy it much. But I have been pretty much abusing Rose for the past five months and I see no reason to stop now.
I think I phoned Rose because I was a lonely bean and so wanted someone to talk to on the way back; I mean I was fully expecting my cycle back home in the dark to be a solitary persuit. However, I was amazed to find myself joined by a FELLOW NIGHT CYCLIST on the way back. He suddenly pulled out into the road while I was cycling along and kind of weaved back and forth madly. "Ding-dong," I thought, "Here comes trouble."
It was an indian-looking man wearing overalls. I am just describing what he looked like. He was on a bike. However he did not have a turban on. If he had, I would have been able to break out the joke that I made up the other day. Fuck it I am saying it anyway it's been built up enough. Right.

What do you call a guy with a turban on a bike?
A SIKH - LIST!!!!!!!!!11!!!!!1!!!!!!

!!!!

The other biker was annoyingly cycling along at such a pace as was not fast enough to move away from me, but not slow enough that I could overtake his ass and speed my way home. To be honest it felt like he was listening in on my phone call. He wouldn't have gotten much out of it.

My side: "Tell me a joke... A physics joke? OK!... I don't know, please tell me the answer... What's an elepton?.... Well if you knew I didn't do physics and was unlikely to get the reference WHY DID YOU TELL ME THAT JOKE?"

Eventually I got bored of him and so quickly did a smooth little overtake and sped away, still talking on the phone. However, about a minute later I was surprised to see him overtake me back. He didn't look at me or talk to me or even make any reference of having seen me at all, but good God that gauntlet was down and I was in no mood (AKA sober enough) to resist a drag racing challenge set by some little indian fellow. So I overtook him, still chatting blithely to Rose. He overtook me again. Then, he TOOK OUT HIS MOBILE PHONE, and HELD IT TO HIS EAR as though PRETENDING to have a conversation with somebody. He didn't say anything, he just kept the handset lit up so that it was obvious that I could see. He kept making surreptitious little glances behind his back to make sure that I could see. I swapped ears. He swapped ears. I started laughing, he turned round and pedalled away.

I overtook him again but he wasn't having any of it and so finally we reached the t-junction. He went left, I went right. Never were we two to meet again, but maybe... I hope to see him again, some darkened night, with the wind whistling through my hair and the thrill of the cold night racing through my veins, for another race, a race to end all races, a true proclamation of our right to be alive, to be free, to cycle with no lights through darkened streets, to tame the devil and ride him all the way to pandemonium and back, to couple hell, stiffen up the limbs, proclaim the aspect of the tiger and let our thoughts be bloody or nothing worth!

When I arrived at my house I hit the brakes too hard and I fell off and smooshed my goolies on the crossbar.