Whether you’re avoiding the Rona, can’t stomach the price of pints or suffering 3rd-degree gurns and frightening members of the public; the party normally ends up back at a glass outdoor setting.
To some, the setting represents a place to sit. To others, arguably better people, it represents freedom. Sloparnado di Vincis see the glass table as a blank canvas that they can fully express their mastery of over-indulgence.
There are no bouncers to keep an eye on your ever-bunging eye at the bar, no signs are telling you that you can’t run a nicotine train on your lungs and there is no limit to the blithering nonsense you can talk.
And just name a pub with a sufficient glass table to look into the eyes of God himself as your slide a lighter perfectly from one side to the other? Legends rise and fall based on the perfection of the slide.
Of course, such a beautiful place isn’t without its hazards. Firstly, on the topic of darts, you should be well aware that no pack is safe once on the table. It will be raided like a priest’s hard drive.
Secondly, systems of trash management breakdown and you are thrust into a world of clutter. Lack of coordination, clutter and valuables on the table is a recipe for disaster. If you haven’t rescued your phone from some sloppy kent knocking a half-full beer over, then you haven’t truly lived.
Thirdly, while you may feel safe as a part of the greater chat herd, be careful not to stray too far and get caught in the jaws of a boring side-chatter. Unable to contribute anything good to the shit talk, the side chatter will lie in wait and pounce when you look sufficiently distracted.
Once taken by this session monster you can expect to politely nod as they bang on about some shit you couldn’t care less about. This is when one will typically deploy the emergency parachute of the slash. Once you’re up the game is reset and that annoying side chatter will need to find another victim.
While it may be possible to leave the table before 4 am, the theory remains largely untested. It’s not your fault; the table has a hold on you. You only leave the table once the booze goes down like razors and the grim spectre of the next day starts chipping away at your soul.
If the end of the night wasn’t fun just wait until you wake up – the dreaded cleanup. Unless of course, you have a dexi’d up hero clean the table because they have as much chance of sleeping as a princess at a pea factory. What a treat.
Coming face to face with the thick layer of party scum that has built up on your table is stomach-churning. Every inch of your being wants to chuck the job in the fuckit-bucket but that would be a mistake.
Like the eye of Sauron itself, the table will burn a hole through the back of your head all day. Sitting there in its disgusting glory – knowing you can’t truly rest until she has been restored to her former glory and ready for another session.
You would do wise to beckon its call. Then go and grab a Maximus you absolute disgrace.
Documenting the Human Zoo is thirsty work, so if you enjoyed what you read how about buying Belle a beer, ay?
