Fear and Loathing at the Pornstar's Birthday

Despite their role as the purveyors of fantasy, pornstars are human. They have birthdays. One such anniversary was celebrated last Saturday night. Along with his erstwhile companions the Chameleon, the Author and the Hobo.

The Odeon is a fashionable bar at the end of Harcourt Street in Dublin 2. Near St. Stephen's Green and surrounded by Georgian buildings, the building was originally a train station. While it is not a place I frequent, I must admit to always enjoying the nights I spend there.

The Pornstar has some very attractive friends, and I was definitely hoping to exploit this. I am lagging significantly in points at the moment, an untenable situation.

Arriving about fifteen minutes before the cover charge started, the Chameleon and I found the Author and the Hobo sitting outside on the veranda enjoying the beautiful summer evening. The Pornstar has arrived unnoticed and was inside.

And now I had a dilemma. During a brief stay in Zanzibar the week before, your humble narrator became embroiled in a conversation with the heroine of "O Reciprocity, Where Art Thou?" about drinking.

As most people know, I drink very rarely. The reasons are numerous. Never one to do things piecemeal, when I do drink, I DRINK. Double-vodkas and Lucozade/Red Bull, shots of tequila, you name it, I want it all. I get absolutely hammered.

The last time I drank, I became very obnoxious. Alcohol bypasses the "discretion override" circuit in my brain, and I tend to give people a hard time. Without becoming truly offensive, I just refuse to shut up. At the time, I think I am the funniest man in the world. By the end of the night, I had behaved appallingly to a girl I have the utmost respect for and I realised Mick the Drunk could be an utter wanker. He should only be asked out to play when he gives strong and ironclad guarantees of good behaviour.

Fortunately the discretion override circuit was operating within normal parameters during the conversation with the fair lady, and the above was referenced in only the briefest of terms.

But sometimes Mick the Drunk is cool. He talks to ladies with ease and has been an integral part of a few fantastically memorable nights out.

My favourite story of his occurred about four years ago. I was out in Tramco with a male and female friend. They hooked up. Leaving me bereft, I was forced to find my own entertainment. It was the night I discovered Vodka and Lucozade, and that going up to girls and talking shite was much easier than I ever thought possible.

Once the night had ended, I blundered outside and found myself in the all-night Spar situated right beside Tramco. I quickly struck up a conversation with a young lady behind me in the queue. Her face and the details of the conversation are sadly lost to the mists of time and alcohol, but I do remember that she was not unattractive (Would on the binary scale).

Outside the spar, the new couple had emerged and were valiantly trying to hail a taxi. Enjoying myself immensely, I left them to it and continued talking to the girl. Suddenly, a taxi stopped and my friend ran over and told me we had to go.

YHN: Well, it has been an absolute pleasure talking to you, but the taxi is here and I have to go home.
Girl: And where is home?
YHN: Glasnevin.
Girl: Sounds good to me.

And I just walked off.

In my defense, I did not hear the last line, and only know of it because I was told about it a week later. At the time I was annoyed, but, being honest, it is much better story than if I had pulled.

But back to the birthday party...

Having dithered on whether or not to drink, I decided I like Erdinger, so why not? Placing the Author and the Chameleon on "bollox overwatch" as a security precaution, I was confident I could survive the night with my reputation intact.

Almost immediately, an argument broke out.

Sitting on the veranda, on a fine summer's night, the four of us plunged headlong into a protracted wrangle over the role of religion in society. Both the Hobo and myself are of the firm opinion that religion should have a role to play. The Author and the Chameleon strongly feel that it should not. Those were our essential positions and both sides were well entrenched.

I argued my point well, doubly so since the beer was starting to kick in. I was having a simultaneous conversation via text message with a student of mine who, having required help with a new iPod, then informed me she'd rather sit in and watch Celebrity Love Island than go out and socialise. Disgusted, I proceeded to split myself in two, arguing about church and state with reason and rationality through my mouth and hurling vitriolic invective with my thumb. I can only assume the abuse heightened as the beer-level sank.

This argument continued until the Pornstar appeared with her attractive friend. Desperately trying to get noticed, I threw the odd comment her direction, but the alcohol had yet to take grasp. The inevitable result was that the obvious approach of taking to my feet and actually talking to the girl never really occurred to me.

By the whims of the trickster gods, another party was occurring across town, in the residence of the Author, and we had all agreed to finish the night there. At the Pornstar's urging, we moved inside to socialise before we took our leave. This confluence of events was particularly unfortunate, and I did not feel comfortable settling into a conversation when my departure is imminent. The Odeon was full of fine ladies, and I already had an established attack vector with a few.

Reluctantly taking our leave, the Chameleon and I took solace from the fact that most parties in the Author's residence are excellent, so all was not lost.

Along the way, while crossing College Green, a beautiful and tall girl was walking down Dame Street. Jim Bob kept walking.

YHN: Let's talk to her. Seriously. I'll do it. No problem.
C: Holy shit Mick, I'm glad you don't drink, cos if you did my annual goal of 28 points would start to look seriously inadequate.
YHN: What have we got to lose?

It will come as a surprise to no-one that Beautiful Tall Girl told me in no uncertain terms she wasn't interested. In fact, she was astonishingly hostile, but that is fair enough.

The Chameleon was not impressed.

C: I knew that was pointless. She had a look.
YHN: Fair enough, but we never knew until we tried.
C: I knew. She had a look.
YHN: I doesn't work that way. I know. I've seen it with my mates. I've looked at girls and thought there wasn't a hope, and then they were really friendly once you talked to them.
C: Not with girls like that.
YHN: Yes with girls like that! Look, think about it mathematically. I'll admit, the chances were slim, but she was lovely, so the payoff was very high. Put the two together and you've got yourself a decent expectation value there!
C: No! You are totally wrong. More than likely you get told to fuck off and then your confidence takes a hit.
YHN: Well, yes, I'll give you that. But I still think it was totally worth it. She was incredibly hostile though, wasn't she?
C: Yes she was.

I do two very strange things when I get drunk. First, when writing text messages, I spell things perfectly, observe punctuation, and don't miss predonyms. Secondly, I tend to view things mathematically (cf. my use of probability theory to justify talking to the BTG). I am sure other people do both as well, but it cannot be common.

Arriving at the party, I was somewhat dismayed to find only a few people there. Selfishly regretting leaving all the ladies, and ignoring the fact that I like the two girls the party was for, I immediately attacked my noggin of vodka, liberally diluting it with everybody's favourite glucose drink.

Wandering upstairs a little later on, I entered a room to find the Author deep in conversation with a female. While in retrospect, what I was looking at was two people in a private conversation, at the time all I saw was two people to talk to and an empty chair beside them.

Plonking myself down, within thirty seconds I went off on a rant about some of the more entertainingly clueless students that I have came across as a lecturer. It got to the point where both the Author and the Chameleon started giving me umbrella signals (the code word which activates "bollox overwatch" mode) - so I forced myself to calm down.

The girl was attractive, but something about her demeanour starting firing warning bells. I did not care. Going into what my brain thought was shmooze mode, I started talking to her, but she started railing against men and how they treat her badly, laying accusations around left and right. Pegging her as yet another crazy female, I decided it was probably safer to go back downstairs.

Thirty minutes later saw your humble narrator at the bottom of the stairs with Attractive But Crazy Girl once more. Showing all the sense common to someone in my state, I decided to try talking to her again. After all, she was pleasing to the eye and available, at least in theory.

Alas, when she immediately detoured the conversation in the general direction of slating another guy at the party, the end result was inevitable. Leaving me with the contents of her spleen, but little else, she walked over to the target of her vitriol and starting kissing him on the couch.

It was at that point that I realised it was time for home.

Before I went to sleep though, I stored the following in my phone:

How strange! Barely fit to stand yet able to way(sic) lyrical on subjects profound, I feel bitter from the rejection of lesser mortals. Alcohol is a strange drug!

With notes like the above left for myself, it is probably just as well I drink rarely, and this is before I even think about the way I felt the next day.