Saturday Night Ramblings (Part 1)

There are certain issues about getting old that we all have to come to terms with; memory failure, death of contemporaries, loss of bodily functions. But I'm not talking about that. I'm talking about the realisation that you aren't as young as you thought you were. The time when 1 in the morning suddenly becomes a barrier that you seldom break. Premature ageing is not something you want to brag about, it's not cool to always be the first home and to consider people your own age young and foolish if they are still doing drugs because why would you want to see daybreak? But if they are the cards you are dealt then that's what you have to play with.

I've never before noticed how many fat birds with big tits there are in London but tonight I have. Perhaps that's part of the condition. I desperately want to be able to keep pace with the beautiful young things but that seems beyond me. I appear doomed to spend the early hours, as tonight, at the bar while those fresher legs are exercised on the dancefloor. The music's shit, or so I think, but that again could be part of me being too old to be in this place. No - the music is shit, it's all crap girl band R&B stuff from 5 years ago when even I was dancing to it if needs must - no matter what anyone says, men do go above and beyond the call of duty to try and impress women. Thank God we aren't wild animals because if we're talking survival of the fittest then I'm screwed.

A woman walks up to the table and over the din I can hear her muttering something about her mate. I feign interest out of courtesy. My mind drifts and I wonder how I've managed to attract this girl. Surely I'm not that bad because even in a semi-pissed state she's nothing to write home about. I respond with a short anecdote to make her feel less awkward as my eyes stray to the dancefloor where I see my mates dancing, if I'm being generous, swaying and bouncing from person to person if I'm not. I need to get out of here, badly. I neck what's left of my drink and head to the door already concerned about finding a cab.

I needn't have bothered as I'm instantly confronted by the usual host of illegal minicab drivers you find outside every London bar almost before I feel the cold wind cut through my polo shirt. Fare agreed I'm in the front seat and we're underway. Normally I'm all talk with these guys, 98% are Nigerian and I amaze them with my knowledge of the country, but not tonight. He's got the radio on some sort of chill out station and Moby comes on. I look up at the buildings through the rain streaked window and see how the buildings around Oxford Circus are actually really beautiful when illuminated. It's rare you take time to appreciate what's on your doorstep. I relax and begin to really enjoy my trip home, remeniscing as I pass all the places I've been to with different groups of friends throughout the years. My mind wanders and every passing face becomes that of my girlfriend but that's silly. She's tucked up safely in bed. Where I want to be. Where I will be soon and I'm smiling.