Tuesday, 10 March 2009
Does wine get you laid? Part II
The thing about these student parties is that you don't really know where the hell to go. You're parked in a room until the conversation is exhausted, then you either stand there like some ostrich having lost his bearings thinking of how dumb you must appear by sitting there and staring at the lamp, or you're supposed to move to another room. The second possibility is clearly more enticing, but it comes with the irrepressible interrogative as to what the hell you're doing it for. All you'll find in the next room is other people having other conversations. Some of these people in turn are moving to the room you originated from because they have nothing else to say in the current one, so the whole milieu looks like the traffic between two groups of people crossing each other because they need to exchange positions from a jacuzzi to a sauna.
For my own part, I spent the first hour and a half of my inauguratory student party sunk in a couch next to an African drum or something very much like it. Every single time some guy walked by it, the pillock in question couldn't resist the urge to sit down and start banging his palms on it, because of course we all love listening to drunks pretending that they know how to play the bongos. The party is swiftly warming up and a rather fit girl decides to enter the competition as to who can tear down the house's walls fastest by means of a drum, so I sit there a little longer complimenting her on her skills with the instrument.
When I stand up, I am feeling really very drunkish. It is a rather novel situation for me, so I celebrate it by dancing around with this guy called Ben, a senior student who has already downed a caraff and a half of student wine and is well-headed for whichever dark hole it is where the mind of drunkards goes. The Finnish guy comes down from the stairs and he can think of nothing better to do than to offer me half a glass of Amaretto, which completes my deconstruction for good. Soon I am walking around swinging my glass like an idiot and staining everything within reach. When they take that away from me, I start doing the same thing with a candle, and I end up getting wax on my socks - something which is a source of much bewilderment for me in the pause-without-memory of the next morning. At a certain point someone asks me 'Are you drunk?' and for some reason the question is a source of such hilarity for me that I start laughing like a herd of hyenas and it becomes impossible to stop me.
I am prey to such hysterical fits that I think it apt to get out of that place for at least a minute. I walk out of that room and lean on a door close-by. Unfortunately it turns out to be one of those door-knobs which turn by pressing on them, so when my hand touches it the door swings open and I fall inside rolling. I sit up in a pretty dark room, the coat depository or something along those lines, and notice that my thumb hurts like hell. I seem to have crushed my fingernail by falling on it (though I only really understood this the next day, when I woke up to find it encrusted with blood). Furthermore my leg is really hurting, though the reason for this is completely beyond me.
It appears that I needs help. As if sent by providence, a man appears in the frame of the doorway and looks at me. It turns out that he is a Nigerian student with an incredibly thick accent.
'Awubba bubba,' he tells me.
'What?' I reply.
What the fuck is this guy saying? Other people come along and in the general frame it seems like I'm the one who's so drunk that I cannot even understand common English (go call it that - if that was common English then a braying camel in its death throes is speaking Goethe's German). So to spare myself further embarrassment, I stand up and leave.
Now as far as providence goes, I'm sure we can agree that that was pretty pathetic. I wasn't expecting God to place a sobering elixir in my hand and offer me a nice flask of deodorant, but suppose that Moses had received the same kind of help when he was in the desert: so much for Christianity then. (Not that roaming there in circles for forty years is a symptom of particularly pristine guidance either, of course).
I don't want to go back to the room where I had originally been, so I decide to venture upstairs. I find an empty room and sit there on my own for a few minutes, trying to see if my neurons are going to stop vortexing for fifteen seconds. When I realise they won't, I stand up and open the door to get out again. The surprise! In front of me is standing the hot girl who was playing the drums earlier. 'So this,' I told myself, 'is the bit where student wine gets me laid.'
We had a bit of a chat, though I must have had the communication skills of the Nigerian student I'd met earlier. After a while I told her that I was really drunk and I was acting weird. She asked me what I was doing of weird, and I took that to be an invitation. As I moved in to kiss her, I recall hearing a little voice inside me thanking God, and immediately after that her voice saying 'No.' It was such a shock that I took a few step backwards without taking my eyes off her. This was a bad idea because I was not remembering that I was now on the first floor, so that I my backwards-tread ended up taking me to the stairs. Suddenly, under my heels, I felt the Mariana trench: immediately after that, I am rolling like the boulder in Indiana Jones and I find myself at the bottom in a pile of shoes which had found itself there God knows how.
I do not recall very much of the rest of the night. I do recall standing up, heading for the kitchen (where the wine was), having some more to drink and eventually slouching on the sofa to rest 'for ten seconds.' I woke up the next day with a soapy taste in my mouth and a brief moment of amnesia. My memories then rushed back to my head and I found myself rather bewildered: so I could get drunk after all. I spent the morning helping out my hosts with the clearing up, then I took to the streets outside in an air fresh with winter. So much for student wine getting you laid.