Closing Time

It's commonly accepted knowledge that one must learn from his/her mistakes. Thanks to a bit of advice from a friend, as well as looking back on a disastrous Valentine's day, I had no choice but to reevaluate my methods for dating here in London to save my pride, if not for a few notes in my wallet. Less than a week after my fiasco, another opportunity arose to not only entertain myself, but renew some of the pride and self-satisfaction that comes to one after a job well done.

Before I start with that story, however, I'd like to clarify a few things regarding my last post. First and foremost, I undoubtedly implied too much blame on the French girl. I chose the cliche date, albeit the atrocious woman has no liking for anything. At the same time, I chose to continue the date. I had the ability to become ill, receive an emergency phone call or even simply declare an end to the perdition that was our date. Second, I perhaps made her sound like something of a bitch - this is terribly inaccurate. This girl would be more suited to guard the gates of hell, if not only to repel the semi-wicked back towards the path of righteousness. To call her a bitch, and a bitch alone, would undeniably be the understatement of the century. I have had several brief encounters (Thank God for their brevity) with her in the past week, and her misery emanates so strongly from her person that it's nearly contagious, so long as one is in her immediate presence. But I digress.

I don't recall who said it, but 'The only way to truly appreciate the joys in life is to experience the hells.' Been there, done that. On Thursday, my day was anything but that. It started off just outside of the Halloway Road underground station, slightly after two O'Clock P.M. Her name is Marta. I met Marta nearly three weeks ago, although at the time I didn't know her name, only that she was from Poland. On Monday, having been released from class early, I thought I'd stop at a pub to get a bite to eat. That's when I met her again. Twenty minutes later, we had arranged to get together on Thursday and shoot a few baskets.

Thursday:
It came like any other day, but ended quite differently. Arriving just short of 14:00, I met Marta and the two of us travelled from store to store searching for a basketball. Nearly an hour later I was successful. JD, a local sports chain, happened to have a leftover basketball in the back corner of their store. Apparently they get a small shipment in during the summer, but don't receive many requests during the gloomy winter here. We stopped at a local gym, one which Marta believed had a basketball court, only to find that they only had a basketball hoop (1) which was reserved for their several youth teams. Another hour or so in search and we were just stepping onto the decrepit and seemingly cryptic courts. Apparently basketball courts are a blemish on the beautiful face of London, so it's necessary to hide them.

Playing basketball, we met a young boy named Roy. Roy was 12 and from Edinbrough, Scotland. I talked to Roy for about 10 minutes and was astonished to find that, while basketball was fairly unpopular in England, it was almost unheard of in Scotland. Only one day a week did he have access to a basketball hoop. The other days he was limited, if not doomed, to play football.

After giving her all she could handle :) (I'd been waiting for that) Marta and I left to meet her boss from the pub Phibbers and one of his customers who had talked up this Turkish restaurant to be the bee's knees. Al, the customer, must have been one lonely sonofabitch, despite being married with an 18 year old kid. After a decent dinner, we agreed to go with Al to get a drink. 5 minutes later Marta, Gary (Marta's boss) and I were standing outside of a gentleman's club waiting for Al, who was supposedly checking out the inside. "Aren't you guys com-" was interrupted by Marta's "no" when he came back outside. Gary and I followed behind the feuding Al and Marta, laughing while she lectured him about being married, 45 and seeking strip clubs - she was right. We stopped at a club called the Queen of Huxton, where we watched Al run some game on a few girls . . . or set new global records for the shortest amount of time required to scare them away - in one instance out of the club. Gary, Marta and I decided to head back to Phibbers and let Al continue destroying the social life at the Queen. An interesting side note, the next day a friend of mine went to the Queen for their Grand Opening, and described the club as lifeless and empty (Congratualtions Al, if you're reading this, you may have successful bankrupted a club in only one night of being there).

We arrived at Phibbers just after 1:00AM, in time, or so I thought, for a pint or two before heading home for the night - presumably by myself since Al's energy and personality had collectively killed any positive social vibe throughout the night. We ordered a pint and a small group of people sat and conversed.

2:00AM - The pub closes.

2:15AM - 7 of us remain in the pub. Gary, Marta and myself, along with Danny, Chris, David and Michael. With the exception of me, everyone else worked there. We drank and exchanged stories about the bar fights that had occured in Phibbers, and believe me, there had been many. I learned that there are two rules when you own a pub in London: 1) Never serve glass on a match day, and 2) don't purchase expensive furniture - in fact, don't purchase furniture at all. Instead, fix the furniture that breaks everytime a match ends.

3:30AM - Gary, Marta, Danny and I are the four remaining at Phibbers. I learn that pubs don't have to close down and kick everyone out at a certain time. They just have to lock everyone they don't kick out inside. Danny teaches me cockney, an English slang, when I show him a message I received from the alleged boyfriend of a girl who I had met the weekend earlier. "Listen you yank. Jog on or you'll av a mars bar down your boat race." Translated = you'll have a scare down your face. Danny sent him a funny message back, although I couldn't understand it. Something to do with Emma Freud's and Cobbler Awls.

4:00AM - Danny decides we all need Jagerbombs to keep us awake.

5:00AM - Danny performs a tequila stuntman and immediately regrets it. A tequila stuntman consists of snorting salt, squeezing lemon juice into the eye and drinking the shot.

7:00AM - We agree to go to breakfast. Danny has the hiccups and decides the best way to get rid of them is to plug his nose, have someone tightly press their hands over his ears and have someone pour a glass of water down his throat while he kneels down, closes his eyes and lifts his head up. The three of us stare at each other when he says this. We go along with it anyway. After the last of Danny's performances for the night, or in this case morning, we head down to a restaurant for a full english breakfast. When we walk in we're warmly greeted by a middle aged lady who knows Danny and Gary by first names. Marta tells me they come here every morning for breakfast when the do a lock in at the pub. "She must think there is something wrong with them because they come in here drunk in the morning all the time" Marta tells me.
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