Birthday night

It’s my birthday in a couple of days so in time honoured fashion I decided to get a group of pals together for a few drinks. I was feeling strangely optimistic about the coming year and it seemed the right time to reunite some long lost acquaintances in the grimy bars of Shoreditch.

Previous years had seen me struggle to get through quite enough ale within the time available so I resolved to start early and aim to plough through a solid base of drinking within the first couple of hours to set me up for a good night. Foolishly dispensing with dinner, I remained a stable character as people turned up and the free pints from friends turned up to replace the ever diminishing ones in my hands. Cracking smiles at old acquaintances to often told anecdotes and making sure I kept mobile, getting to catch up with everyone.

Slightly miffed by the corporate ambience of the first bar we were in, I managed to pull off a two pronged assault on a much improved venue: The Legion. In there I found even more old friends that I hadn’t known were coming, which much delighted me. In fact, I found myself in a mental state approaching euphoria. Well-meaning friends kept coming up to me proffering rare shots of horrible beverages. My clarity began to fade. The music was particularly excellent and I found myself bopping to the maximum. Fiendish gyrations to twisted beats. Leaping on to tables to descend making crazed arm movements onto the beer-soaked floor.

Which is maybe where it should have ended. An experience my mate described to me the next day as “Rocking the Legion”. An ecstatic tribute to the tunes and the style in which we marauded it. All good-natured stuff you understand? No bad vibes and fronting. Just straight enjoyment in the moment. And maybe it did end like that. I can’t be sure. Round that time my memory gets erased entirely and the next clear memory I have is of stumbling around the street, on my own, desperately trying to hail a taxi. I remember thinking: “my god, in this state, on my own, I’m going to get beaten up”. None of the cabs wanted to go out as far as the suburban morass where I reside, and when I got one, eventually, I was delighted at the chance of being robbed of an extra forty notes. Oh, and losing my cashcard, but then that’s another story.

And so I find myself wondering, what did happen in that lost hour and a half. Why did I end up on my own, particularly when I was in the bar with one of my other mates who also ended up taxiing it home on his lonesome. Weird stuff and a strong reminder of the fact that I’m not indestructible. No Groover, you are not the one-man-human-drinking machine. To those that attended the evening and I think potentially those that tried to escort me home, I salute you as good friends one-and-all. Despite the fear illicited by the memory loss described above, I think it possibly could have been one of the most amusing nights of my nearly one year older life. In fact, you know I really hope we all get to do it again some time, but I think on the next one I might have to skip the brandy.