On Friday I went out for a few pale ales after work. I ended up inevitably skulling my two “last orders” beers as the lights were turned on and chairs upturned onto tables.
Despite being three sheets to the wind I decided to embark on a perambulatory Cannibal Run across London in the vain hope of finding some of my mates in a late night watering hole.
I found myself strolling through St James’ Park whilst listening to the answer phone messages of every single one of my mates (I have about 3, maybe 4 at a push).
As I was feeling a little tired and emotional, and in the hope that someone would ring me back and guide me to their subterranean dive bar, I decided to have a little sit down on a bench.
I awoke, bolt upright, freezing cold and with the unmistakable “where am I, am I a tramp?” feeling, about an hour later.
I then realised all was lost and stumbled to McDonalds (“Large Big Mac meal, strawberry milkshake, cheeseburger and nuggets please.”) inhaled my deep fried beige filth and hopped onto the night bus.
The night bus, as ever, was like a secret government zoo used to test anti-psychotic drugs.
Shortly after I got on, a hot girl got on the bus. Not hot as in that girl in white from the “That’s why you always find me in the kitchen at parties” Ikea advert. But hot nonetheless.
She scanned the bus, which had plenty of empty seats, sat down next to me and almost instantaneously fell into a deep pissed coma, on me.
The bus braked hard and her head flopped into my lap, I pushed her off. It did a hard right and she fell on me and chucked her Diet Coke all over my feet. I smiled and said don’t worry about it as her eyes rolled back in her skull. The bus did a hard left and she fell off the seat. I helped her up and she looked at me like I was her nan’s comfiest couch and threw herself on me again. You have to understand she wasn’t doing this because she wanted a slice, she did it because I was the closest thing to a Silent Night superstore.
When it was finally time to get off I realised I couldn’t get out unless she moved. She was dead to the world. I’d have had more luck kicking awake a British Museum mummy. I tried to shake her awake and then realised waking up on a night bus with a six-foot bloke looming over you and shaking you by the shoulders is more than a little rapey.
There was nothing for it so I decided to climb over her. I, despite my back teeth floating in booze, had enough gumption to realise it would probably better if I faced away from her as I did it. Placing my groin, however sparrow like, into the looming scenario above would have resulted in a miscarriage of justice at the Hague.
To my delight and with the timing of a space shuttle launch she woke up just as my arse docked with her face. She was more than a little surprised and made the kind of noise I’ve only ever heard when my mate woke with his head in the foot end of a sleeping bag.
Fortunately our seats were right in front of the doors. So I had the excruciating shame of standing waiting for the doors to open whilst she gave an unmistakable “WTF!?!” look. I looked at her, frowned, and shrugged like Alan Partridge as I stumbled into the welcoming soft suburban dark.