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| Friday, December 01, 2006 |
| Drunkards |
Ata went to a drinks night tonight. On the whole, it was a pleasant event, at which she met some new people and ran into some old friends. Then there were the cricket-watchers.
The cricket is on. This means that of an evening, the bars - and indeed any venue where alcohol is served, apparently - are full of sloshed cricket-watchers from all over the globe. Well, Australia and Britain.
The three Ata has in mind had spent the day at some sort of private function, apparently drinking more than watching cricket. The only real details she got were that there were a lot of blondes there. Ata got introduced to the three cricket-watchers when she noticed that her friend, who shall be known as T, was making 'come save me' faces from underneath three looming men. Obligingly gliding over, Ata promptly regretted the cut of the dress she was wearing when one of the three spent a good two minutes literally bent over double under the guise of reading Ata's nametag. Yes. Truly. After making polite but nonsensical banter, Ata extricated T, claiming that she needed to be introduced to... someone outside. It was fifteen minutes later that one of the three wandered outside and, in some kind of effort to apologise for his friend's behaviour, proceeded to lean very close to Ata and deliver a long, rambling essay on Men Who Try To Pick Up Women. Ata is ashamed to say it, but eventually she left T to suffer the tirade while Ata conveniently spotted someone much more sober who required her immediate attention. Well, I did give T the opportunity to claim that she needed to be introduced to this other sober person, but she didn't take it. Or didn't notice it. One of them.
Afterward, Ata went to collect Mr Ata from the PJ O'Briens, where he'd met his brother. This place was full of thoroughly off their faces cricket enthusiasts. Ata sidled through the crowd, avoiding making eye contact, but couldn't find Mr Ata. So she sent him an SMS. Instead of messaging back, he called. She shouted at him to message her, then hung up. He called again. Unable to hear anything, and attracting bemused gazes from those around her, she went outside and continued shouting into the phone. Finally, she made out a sentence - "I can't hear you. I'm going outside and I'll call again." Good. That'll do. So she stood in front of the door, avoiding the eyeline of the old man with a whisky glass sitting at one of the outdoor tables, until Mr Ata and his brother appeared and decided that they wouldn't call her, as they'd found her outside.
We sat at a table with - you guessed it - the old man with the glass of whisky. Turns out he is a regular at that pub, goes there with a mate every Friday. The mate joined us also, and we bellowed conversation for a time. Well, we think it was conversation. The two of them had Irish accents so thick that they stuck in the ears like cotton wool, and we would make out maybe one or two words from a paragraph. One of them procured yellow hats reading "Boony Army" for Mr Ata and his brother. They were pleased. Mr Ata's brother announced that he would wear his to the bogan party he was going to later.
Ata eventually tired of the shouting and confusion and insisted on going home. Now she plans to eat the last of the leftover pizza and go to bed.
Pfft. Social butterflying is for suckers. |
posted by Ata @ 9:55 pm  |
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| 1 Comments: |
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I don't think I've ever met anyone at a pub who wasn't a sleeze/bogan. Much better to just stay home.
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I don't think I've ever met anyone at a pub who wasn't a sleeze/bogan. Much better to just stay home.