18. The Night Before The Morning After...

Saturday December 24th 2005

So¦ Christmas Eve at the pub¦

¦heaving like a blouser's bed-springs on pay-night at a poontang palace in Perth. So many people that you couldn't see the gaps between. Smoke. Booze. Heat. Sweat. Lights. Noise. The craic going at 140 beats-a-minute. Hieronymous Bosch on benzedrine.

Beautiful!

Sherlock and I were in the Saloon again, sharing a table with Suzy and Trina. They were decked out like twin Father Christmases, though only Suzy had the figure to carry it off. Mole was there, too ' another Public Bar expat, driven over by the sheer squash of bodies and the need for coughing space. Yoyo and Gemma had come in and joined us after a kebab at Donna's. And there was a surprise. I couldn't believe what I was seeing. It wasn't just the drink, either. In her black dress, leather jacket, bobbed hair and fish-nets, Gemma was as far from the girl in the 10 o'Clock shop by the bus station as Cacksea is from Cairo. Now¦ here was the woman for Yoyo.

Of the other regulars, the Beasley Boys were blissed off their charity-shop socks somewhere in the thick of it all, doing odd stints of karaoke to The Rat Pack and downing slammers like there was no tomorrow. Where they're concerned, quite soon there won't be. Meanwhile, Oakie and the boys were behind the bar helping out. Denise was a blur of pink tinsel and blonde bouffant, pulling the pumps in a way that was almost pornographic.

And ol' Lemon was in for the first time since his win ' sans cardy and raincoat ' oiled-up and trimmed in a blue satin suit, pink hankie at the pocket, orange silk shirt, paisley cravat and patent leather pumps. Think Bob Hoskins as Quentin Crisp. He looked as awkward in the equipage of his sudden wealth as a judge in a jump-suit. He didn't mention the money, so neither did anyone else ' which is how it should be between friends. He did, though (bless him) offer to pick up the evening's bar tab. There'd never been anything like it before. The very air was alcoholic ' when you could find any.

The fine feller came over to us at one point, toting a tray of fluorescent green cocktails as viscous as washing-up liquid.

"What's in it? Trina asked, as he passed them around.

Lemon shrugged his expensively-padded shoulders, nearly spilling the lot. "No idea. Craig made it up himself. You'll just have to try it.

Sherlock did just that, tossing a mouthful around his gums and arching his eyebrows like a pro.

"Mmmm¦ I detect a definite soupçon of midori there¦ strong sambuca notes¦ a solid crème de menthe roundness of tone¦ and¦ yes¦ just the slenderest, yet incisive hint of vodka-martini. He sniffed, dropping it past his tonsils at last. "A dribble of battery acid, too, I'd say.

He swallowed the rest in one, sighing like a sofa as the liquid slithered down his throat and burnt through his dinner.

"Good luck to you, Lemon, he said, without a trace of irony.

Which was the cue for the rest of us. We echoed the toast and tipped up our glasses. There was a long pause as the stuff got to work. It was like having the first toke of top-grade dope. Things suddenly tripled. Everyone was outlined with rainbow colours, like an aura. Mole tried to cough, but couldn't. It seemed to have cauterized his throat.

"Santa's Snot, Craig called it, Lemon said, moving off. "He said it gets him going on a cold morning. I'll ask him for the recipe if you like.

"You do that, Melon, said Mole, trying to light a fresh fag whilst holding his match about a foot from his face. "I could use a bucketful for the pick-up.

Suzy grinned. "I wonder what Craig uses to wind down.

"Same as the rest of us, said Sherlock. "Rum and cocoa.

.

To say we got pissed is like saying the sun's a big round hot thing. We were so far gone that we felt like we'd slipped into a parallel universe ' one where everyone's face expands and contracts and no one can remember who they are. One where men think they're sexually irresistible to women younger than their daughters, and women come on to their own husbands.

We played a game that we often play in such circumstances. It doesn't have a name, simply a method:

Name the person of the same sex you'd most like to do it with if you had the chance.

Mole lit another fag. He still hadn't got his cough back. It was almost worrying.

"Scarlett Johannson and Cameron Diaz, he said.

Sherlock clouted him with his deerstalker. "Same sex, tosspot.

"They are the same sex, Mole replied.

It was my turn.

"Johnny Depp, I said. "Billie Joe Armstrong¦ Michael Stipe¦ er¦ Morrissey¦

Sherlock nudged me. "Ease up, tiger. We're not talking about a gang bang.

I looked at Yoyo.

He looked at me.

"What you looking at me for, Al? he said.

I looked away again quickly, trying not to let my eye settle on Gemma. Next, please¦

Sherlock belched contentedly. "George Dubyah Bush, he said.

He noticed us all staring at him dumbstruck.

"Well, someone needs to fuck him, he said.

We shifted then to Suzy and Trina, who were sitting tangled up in one another like a couple of teenagers.

"This game doesn't apply to us, Trina burbled, trying to keep her head still long enough to put her glass to her mouth.

"Yes it does, I said. "You have to name a bloke you'd go with.

They looked at each other, their mouths wobbling around in a way that suggested novocaine overdose.

"Alrigh' then, said Suzy. "Shorge Michael.

"George Michael's a wooftah, Sherlock protested. "You can't have wooftahs unless you're a bloke.

"Boll'cks, said Suzy. "I'm a lesb'n. I can 'ave who the fuck I like.

"Elton John, said Trina.

"He's a wooftah as well.

Suzy slammed her glass down on the table.

"D'nise!!  she said.

Nobody said anything for a moment. Then Mole's cough returned.

"Denise is a¦ He stopped to think about it. It obviously wasn't something he was in a fit state to do.

Then Trina perked up. At least, her eyes opened wider than they had been.

"Transsexual's the word you want, she said. "And I agree. Denise. Then she eyed the rest of us sharply. "Come on, then. How many of you lot would do it with her?

We drunk our drinks as that one sank in. Yoyo was starting to shift a bit in his seat. You could feel the tremors through the floor.

"Stupid fuckin' game if you ask me, he said.

Which was about all anyone was going to ask him.

Then Gemma, who'd been crammed in between him and Suzy, suddenly sat forward. The sunflower springing out from behind the rain-butts and coming up for some rays. She'd slurped as much as the rest of us, but it didn't seem to have affected her in the same way.

"I disagree, she said. "I think it's quite an interesting game.

We all stopped wobbling at once. At last I could look at her without feeling scared. Everyone else was doing the same. Yoyo looked like he'd crapped his pants. I'd never heard anyone contradict him before.

"It's very psychologically revealing, she went on. "It forces us to challenge our ideas about sexuality ' which is, of course, far more complex than society's innately conservative and paternalistic institutions condition us to believe. Every one of us, whether we care to accept it or not, has homosexual impulses to a greater or lesser degree.

She took a sip of her drink. We just stared at her. Then Suzy raised her glass.

"Yeah¦ fuckin' right, sister, she said.

Gemma winked. "In that sense, of course, it also reveals our prejudices. She turned to Yoyo. "Don't you agree, Clive?

Clive?

Here was another test. No one called him Clive and got away with it.

He was Yoyo.

Clive?

But he was just gazing at her ' his face a melted jelly of confused admiration, his brain a mush of meringued multi-syllables. Something big was going down in there. You could feel the vibes as strongly as the sound of his footsteps coming up a flight of stairs.

His mouth moved, chewing on empty air. Then he lifted his shades up onto his forehead. I'd never seen him so undressed in public before. His eyes were glistening and blue, and as round as coins. He coughed quietly. Then his shades slid down again, lubricated by the film of sweat that suddenly seemed to have coated his face.

"Erm¦¦ Bruce Willis, he mumbled.

I cleared my throat, pretending not to hear him. I won't tell you what the image was that came into my head. You can guess for yourself.

It seemed to have worked, though. Gemma beamed at him.

"Hmmm¦ interesting, she said. Then she slammed down the rest of her drink. Her skin, pallid-seeming in the shop, had taken on the satiny lustre of pink porcelain. "And I'll go for Germaine Greer¦ or Dawn French as a second-best.

So would I, actually¦ if I was a woman. And I was a lesbian.

.

Everyone was empty.

Everyone simply stared wherever their eyes led them.

It was just after twelve.

Christmas Day.

I picked up my glass and asked if anyone else was up for a night-cap. There were no takers. Sherlock was lost somewhere under his hat. Mole was wheezing on the burnt-out tatters of a roll-up. Suzy and Trina were sleeping like babes in a buggy.

Yoyo and Gemma?

"No thanks, Al, Gemma said, pre-empting the man before he could hand me his glass. "Clive and I have got other plans.

She stood up then and took his arm, dragging him to his feet with remarkable lack of effort. It was like watching a kid with a tadpole net yank a whale out of a lake. Yoyo seemed dazed by the sudden blood-rush.

"Happy Christmas everyone, she said, leading him away.

"Yeah¦ said Yoyo, grinning like a dope-head. "Crappy Isthmas¦ or summink¦

Happy Christmas¦

So I had the last drink alone. Well, just me and Denise.

And it was funny. She didn't look bad. In a manly sort of way. If I didn't know better¦ hmmm¦ maybe.

Or maybe it was the drink.