A Different Breed

Trip Start Sep 09, 2004
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Trip End Ongoing


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Saturday, December 3, 2005

The last few days have not so much been eye opening, as eye 'popping'. As with a lot of things in life, once your truth changes you're stance on things starts to change too. For many years now I've believed that at various times in my life I've gone through the classic high/low experience of being quite pissed. And now, after what I've witnessed over the last few days, I realise how mistaken I've been over the years. The truth, as I've now learned, is that I've never really been 'pissed' at all, I've been tipsy.

This is the text message I sent to Chicken last night just as Shelley and I approached the Dux-de-Lux bar to purchase our first 'pitcher':

'I'M OUT WITH SHELLEY. HER AND RICKY HAVE SPLIT UP. BEAR IN MIND HOW PISSED SHE GETS AND HOW VOLATILE SHE IS WHEN SHE'S PISSED. NOW PICTURE MY FACE. HAVE A GOOD NIGHT LOVE. X'

I think it all kicked off the other night. I was on shift, around 1:30am sitting with a brew awaiting my next job when Ricky and Big Rob* (see note) came crashing up the stairs trying desperately to be quiet while giggling cheekily at the very challenge of having to be quiet. Shelley had left the party two hours before and was safely tucked in bed. They were legless. Ricky sat there swaying in his chair with a lazy grin stretched over his face. He couldn't string a single sentence together, just made it all up from random grunts and giggles. Big Rob's eyes were undetectable. The stench was foul. They left moments later in a taxi as Ricky had decided to stay at Big Rob's for the night. Apparently, he and Shelley had had a mass mare at the party, which resulted in Shelley coming home early.

The next night I was invited to accompany Shelley down to the Dux for a 'few beers'. We joined Jez and Kev who were already there on a bit of a works do, enjoying the vast array of free seafood and antipasto platters along with endless bottles of wine, beer and cocktails. It was all very plush and enticingly pleasant sitting outside in the early evening sun which took a good couple of hours to set dramatically behind the mountains. So it didn't take long for Shelley and I to put a couple of pitchers away, which is about the same time she started talking about 'problems at home', which comfortably took care of the next hour or two. In that time, Ricky joined us after work for a swift half and returned home just as quickly to get changed before coming back out (which never actually happened, neither did he return home that evening.)

So through the whole difficult conversation I'd catch occasional glimpses of Jez and Kev knocking back whole glasses of wine in one go, one hand clutching a colourful margarita, the other reaching for a beer and a smoke. It was all free and they were loving it. Though I use the word 'muntered', there really isn't a word to describe the state they ended up in. The first glass got smashed around 9pm and when the second one scattered across the patio they were politely encouraged to move on by a very hacked off looking waitress, which they did - arm in arm, swooning all over the road and around the traffic, shrieking and giggling as they went. I followed while Shelley tied up 'loose ends'. I've never seen anything quite like it. It was as if the whole population of Queenstown and the two pissheads in front of me were part of a huge cast of actors. The whole surreal performance just kind of sprung to life as if the director had just shouted 'aaand.....Action!'

I followed loosely behind like a camera man as they made their way from one side of town to the other, determined to blast through the whole obstacle course of shopping malls, roads and footpaths as noisily as possible. I was cringing as they staggered through, and watched painfully as cars stopped in their tracks to reveal inconvenienced faces looking on in sheer disbelief. People in the street were stopping conversations momentarily to 'watch', while some passers by were actually turning back round for a second look as if not believing it the first time. When faces started appearing in shop windows I just didn't know where to look. Kev spent nearly as much time rolling on the floor as he did upright. It was bedlam. When they finally made it to the other side of town, they somehow managed to prize themselves apart and Jez insisted on another pint while Kev lay pressed tightly in a shop doorway. Shelley joined us in 'The World' ten minutes later to report that Kev had since smashed his face in after trying to run at high speed. His legs had failed to keep up with his horizontal momentum and he finally gave the pavement a nice brushing with his chin and nose. Jez left us minutes later as his legs could no longer hold the weight of his body. It was 10pm.

So here we are, sitting here on a quiet, Friday afternoon following the aftermath of last night. Ricky has miraculously returned and is now lying on the settee looking anxious and confused. Jez has just surfaced from the dark depths of his self-inflicted coma and is completely disoriented after a good fourteen to fifteen-hour sleep. He's not saying much as his mouth is still watering. Shelley is out on the lake in a posh boat sipping wine and bourbon with her management friends and generally spiralling towards her own intoxicated tomb, lacking any real concentration and feeling angry and upset (and probably still hungover from last night.) Lyn-Marie is at work, furious. Apparently, after crawling in from the taxi (on his knees) Jez returned home to an almighty eruption. He remembers nothing of it other than the fact that Lyn is now fuming. Isn't that just the worst thing? I'm sitting on the sofa opposite both of them as I assume my new temporary identity as 'key witness', a title I just do not wish to have. Individually, everyone knows that I know something, but nobody knows what or how much and no one will ask. I'd sooner know nothing. Oh the life and times...this would make excellent 'Big Brother'!

*Note: - Big Rob is strongly obsessed with bedding women. He thinks and talks of nothing else ('So I'm gonna 'do' as many as I can before I join the French Legion.') He's confident that this will all work out. If it doesn't, I'm confident that he'll try and get in to the porn industry. He's eighteen and he's an animal. Remember that fat Canadian who was rolling around on the floor in her tights at our housewarming party? The one that disgusted him? Well they got talking towards the end. She's since developed a new walk.
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Comments

nozzy
nozzy on

Rotta
Jupe,

Sounds like Big Rob is a bit of a rotta.

scottwoz
scottwoz on

Re: Rotta
Well, I've sinced snapped a classy picture of the animal in question...

Check out the next couple of entries!

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