After Hours : Part Two

Like I said in yesterday's post, I rarely frequent our after-hours drinking club anymore as I just don't have the energy for all-nighters - I guess that's what happens when you hit the wrong side of twenty-five. But one night last week I found myself still buzzing after the club closed - all that freedom and nowhere much to go. It didn't take too much persuasion from Suze and Danny to get me to revisit old haunts.

We walk down the Tottenham Court Road before we turn into Soho. The streets are filthy, littered with boxes and cans from the kebab shops up the road. Every other shop doorway serves as a shelter for the homeless, buried in makeshift nests of cardboard and tattered blankets. Hollow eyes peer out of the dark as we pass the discount bookshop, an expressionless voice asks for some change. As always, I try to meet the eyes with mine before I say, no sorry, before I walk on. Being ignored, steps quickening, faces averting, being refused any kind of acknowledgement because you lack the security of bricks and mortar, that must be the most painful cut. I might not be able to give everyone money - I try to limit it to a daily delivery of sandwiches for Billy who lives in the doorway of the Empire, and buying the Big Issue from my local seller - but at least I can give acknowledgement. And sometimes I think that feeds the soul more than a pound coin ever could.

Our drinking club is not exactly legit; the fact that it doesn't announce its presence to passers-by can make it hard to find. All the doorways in this (seedier) part of Soho look the same; dented and rusty metal, smelling of piss, neglected, unmemorable, anonymous, without name or number. As usual, we ring the bell and a hatch slides open to reveal a pair of suspicious eyes. Our faces pass muster and the door swings open. We squeeze past the bouncer, a granite-faced boulder of a man, into a narrow corridor and head up the stairs.

Except for the blacked-out windows, it looks like the worst kind of student sitting room. Tatty old sofas, vinyl armchairs and chipped formica tables jostle for space. A makeshift bar, built by someone with only a passing acquaintance with D.I.Y. runs the length of the room, topped with bottles of rum and whisky and a couple of plastic cool boxes filled with beer. It’s not the sort of drinking establishment that has Apple Martinis on the cocktail menu, but as usual, the place is packed.

The first time I came here I was scared shitless. A lot of the punters wouldn't look out of place in a police line up and there is a distinct odour of menace in the air. Ready rolled spliffs are sold from a box behind the bar, useful for those nights when you’re so mashed you can’t speak let alone skin up anything thinner than a retro-sized tampon. And if you fancy a line nobody bats an eyelid if you chop it out and snort it up straight from the table. The only thing they don’t like is the really hard stuff. Not a problem for me. I have some limits.

We grab a table and send Danny over to get the drinks in. Suze is like, I so need a drink. Five auditions this week and nothing to show for it except a bruised ego. And to make it even worse, Ty dumped me. Suze has been going out with Ty for as long as I’ve known her so this is big news. I go, what happened this time? Hoping that my pleasure won’t show on my face - Ty is one of the biggest arseholes I’ve ever had the misfortune to meet. Suze goes, he’s been fucking some tart who, he says, makes me look like an amateur. She sneers, although frankly, I find that hard to believe - it's not like I've ever heard him complaining when he's got his cock in my mouth. Suze's words are hard but her eyes are wet. It hurts me to see her like this. It hurts me to see anyone like this. I put my hand on her arm, are you alright Suze? She's like, what do you think? Of course I'm not fucking all right. She shrugs me off, oh fuck it, he'll be back. He always comes back. He always comes back when the thrill of fresh pussy wears off. She smiles but it's hollow, shrugs, like, you know, whatever.

It really pisses me off, the way Ty treats Suze. And I’m even more pissed off at her that she lets him get away with it. Every time he comes back, tail between his legs, full of self-pity, excuses, protestations, and there’s Suze - welcoming arms wide open, so fucking grateful to have him back that she’ll forgive him anything, wipe the slate clean, present herself to him like a gift when what he really needs is a push in the direction of the door. It’s way past pathetic. All that love stuff, it sucks out your brain and leaves a vacuum instead. Whatever happened to self-respect?

I'm so glad I'm out of that game. I am so, so glad.

I don't stay at the club for long that night. I guess I've kind of lost my appetite for it.