Religion and Politics – Just Say No

October 6, 2008

Good morning, dear readers.


Today’s blog, for all my chirpy I-actually-quite-like-Mondays efforts, may not contain the overwhelming feeling of warmth and positivity I normally try and impart on you all.


You see, this weekend was a bit of a shitter.


I am considerably poorer, I had a hangover for the first time in a very long time indeed, and I completely wasted about six hours of my life.


But honestly, this morning, I feel pretty good. It was just the weekend that sucked balls, ok?


And it actually started pretty well.


I went home Friday, had a very pleasant meal indeed, worked exceptionally hard in the gym and felt great, and got off to bed at a decent time, falling asleep as I normally do on a Friday night to the sights and sounds of Jools Holland TV show – a music show on BBC2.


I woke up Saturday morning at a surprisingly late time for me – about 9am, and, after a leisurely breakfast, began to get ready. Today was tattoo day.


It was about 11am that I started to chicken out. I began second guessing where I wanted it, and if I was actually doing it for the right reasons. These aren’t things you want to get unless you’re 101% sure.


So I decided not to go, and instead decided what to do with my day. I guess I was beating myself up a little at this point – I wasn’t in the best mood.


But then, the mail arrived, and my demeanour was (albeit temporarily) lifted. I had received a letter.


So quick was I to open it, glad to have something to do, I didn’t quite realise that I had recognised the writing on the front to be my own – it had registered, I just hadn’t had that ‘oh’ moment.


And there it was. Over two months after my course completion, I had received a letter from myself, written on the final day of my course, detailing every wonderful emotion I was feeling at that time. ‘Don’t forget these moments, and who you are’ I was telling myself. This was me at my greatest, telling myself not to let go; not to forget.


‘Fuck this’ I thought, went upstairs, took a shower, and got in the car. ‘That David would be doing something ‘in the moment’’ I thought. ‘Better not let him down.’


I guess it was about 15 minutes into my half an hour car drive into Camden Town that I thought to myself. ‘No… wait.’ Once again, I was plagued by doubt. 5 minutes later, and feeling pretty crappy about the way I was constantly second guessing myself, the car was turned around and I was driving back.


I texted a friend of mine, Ashley, to see what he was doing that night, and 5 minutes later, I had an invite to go to Roadhouse, a bar in Covent Garden. If I am being honest, I had known that texting Ashley meant I would end up being invited out, and I knew that going out with Ashley meant I would be having some drinks – not a usual practice for me, and with good reason.


But anyway, I was ‘swimming in the shit’ as was once famously (well, famously to my Hoffman group) said, and rather enjoying feeling like crap. After wandering some shops looking for ANYTHING to fill the gaping hole I was feeling, I bought some trousers – I know, exotic or what? – and quickly made my way home, very excited about the prospect of blowing off some steam.


There is a reason I do not generally drink is because, simply, drinking and I do not mix. All the extremities of my past life seem to divulge into one when I drink – it’s like all the focus on self destruct and self hatred are zoned in on that glass, and I won’t stop until I feel in myself that I have reached my limit – which, occasionally and thankfully, does happen from time to time – or I just get to the point of near-oblivion.


Let me give you an example. On Saturday night, I was never without less than 2 glasses of drink in my hand at one point for the first… 3 hours. I was out with two other people, and when it was my round at the bar, I would order 4 drinks – 1 for each of us, and 1 for me to down while I was waiting for the barman to return with my credit card.


By the time we left Roadhouse, and went to another club, Carbon, I was pretty drunk. I managed another couple of drinks when I got there, but the damage was already well and truly done.


After taking a cab home, I somehow managed to lock up the house properly, and collapsed into bed, having (and this is something I realised only the morning after when I woke up) perfectly folded and hung up the clothes I was wearing – even to the point of replacing the shoe trees in my shoes, and re-balling up my socks. It was quite a surreal sight.


Rather predictably, I was hungover. Being that I don’t generally drink, and therefore have a low tolerance, and then combining it with my occasional need for excess and punishing my body, my hangovers are really bad. My body just doesn’t know how to deal with it any more.


I woke up around 11 – not bad seeing as I’d got back around 4 – actually feeling ok. Sluggish, but mostly ok. I actually managed to get up, and even (for some reason as I was naked and bloody freezing) managed to walk over to my laptop and have a quick glance at my emails. About 20 minutes later, I realised all was not well in the world of David, so I stumbled downstairs – still naked and freezing, being that I didn’t feel like my head would take the sudden movements and jerking of putting on a t-shirt.


I managed a glass of water, and about 2 bits of a piece of cake before quickly returning to bed, presumably hoping that I would wake up when either hell had frozen over, or this hangover had disappeared.


I was however consciously aware that at some point I would have to get up. A friend of mine had set me up on a date that night with someone called Sara. Sara and I had spoken on the phone, done the whole exchange of pictures thing, and generally got on very well. It was for that reason that really, I didn’t want to not go, despite already being aware that I was going to be some way off my best form.


Do not ask me how, but at about 3, I somehow managed to get up, take a shower, and gingerly make my way to buy some flowers for that evening. What can I say? I’m a gentleman.


Feeling somewhere beyond delicate, I managed to get back home, went back to bed for 15 minutes (seriously) took another shower, marvelled at being able to keep some food down, and feeling absolutely awful, made my way to West Hampstead to pick up Sara.


I picked Sara up at 5.30, pretty early for a date, but there was a reason for this. I had booked us tickets for a Burlesque Cabaret show in London’s Soho at Madame Jojo – a very cool, uber hip club right in the middle of London’s gay scene, and opposite a gay porn store, advertising, in the window, what I guess was the gay porn version of ‘No Country For Old Men’ – ‘No Cunties For Hung Men’. Seriously.


After going to a local pub for a quick drink – and getting some very weird looks being that I was (a) straight, and (b) with a woman, we made our way to the show.


The show itself was ok – a mixture of some very good – one particular model, a Ms Golden Delicious (which I suspect may not have been her real name) was particularly alluring. ( Some were downright awful, though. There was one group, who I can only assume were there as part of some competition win, who looked like a group of drunken 40-something housewives who had just had Ann Summers throw up on them. That one was particularly painful to watch. Fortunately, the final act were absolutely fantastic – a musical combo who used songs as comedy, changing the arrangements and such.


I was having quite a decent time, perhaps not as decent as I had hoped, but one thing was bugging me. The MC/Compare for the evening was rubbish. But that wasn’t what was pissing me off. It was Sara.


The show was 2 and a half hours, and for 2 and a half hours, Sara had not shut up about how terrible he was. ‘I can’t believe how bad he is’, she would say. ‘He’s so amateurish’ was another. For 2 and a half hours. And, as she polished off her third glass of wine, she was getting a little bit louder with it. Not loud, just loud-er.


And, as we left, it continued. To be honest, I wanted out at that point, but I was bloody starving, and I finally felt like my stomach was ready for proper food. We’d spoken briefly about getting something to eat, and after some very minor persuasion, I was convinced to go and get some Chinese food in Chinatown. Being a Londoner with a working knowledge of where and where not to go, we were safe from food poisoning.


They say the two things you should never talk about on a date are religion and politics. I should have probably written that on my hand at some point. Sara started to ask me about my job, and conversation turned to why we were in the shit as a country, and more questions led to me (quite happily, being that I didn’t want to hear about how the MC/Compare was awful again) explaining my theories on a changing world, the emerging east, and the west’s failure to grasp that it isn’t the dominant political and economic power it once was.


Yeah, things were a laugh riot at this point.


Of course, at this point, I was looking for trouble, and I began to notice things like how horrible her table manners were, how she was rude to the waiters and how she didn’t even OFFER to pay for anything. I mean, I’m fine with paying. I genuinely don’t have a problem, but a false show of willing would be appreciated! Just half-reach for your purse and let me say ‘no, don’t be silly’! But no. The bill came and she just stared at me.


‘Fuck it’ I thought. ‘The sooner I pay, the sooner I can go home’.


We walked through Leicester Square, to get back to the car, which was parked on Saville Row. You’d think we’d reached the low point by this time, but no, the worst was to come.


Set up just outside Leicester Square were some tables, and Sara wanted to see what they were. Apparently, some Scientologists were offering ‘stress tests’, and Sara wanted to do it.


I have a problem with Scientology. It’s obviously a cult, it quite obviously rips people off, and it was started by someone who lived on a boat with a group of 13 year old boys. (He really did)


So we approach, and then, for some inexplicable reason, Sara, in the blink of an eye, had gone from willing partaker to someone whose sole concern was seeing how much she could annoy these people and take the piss out of them, all the time never letting go of my arm, making me an accomplice to this ridiculous charade, and making me look will a willing party.


She then turned and walked away, quite proud of the truly outstandingly bizarre few minutes that had passed, and I just wanted to run. Very fast. Talk, almost inevitably, turned to religion. Sara was happy to offer her opinions on God, religion, and the world, but the moment I offered counter-opinion (and I stress, NOT argument) she immediately dismissed it with a quite literal wave of her hand and an ‘I’m not interested in other people trying to dictate what I think.’


The car ride home was quiet(er) than the hours that had preceded it, and we finally arrived to where she lived. I lied, and told her it was fun, making quite clear that I intended to leave by keeping the engine on.


Now, apparently, I was the only one who didn’t think it went particularly well, because, as I went to kiss Sara goodbye (on the cheek) she turned her head, and tried some disastrous faux-passionate kiss right on my lips. I left them there for a few seconds while I decided the best way to get the fuck out of this without this person chopping me to pieces and keeping my head in her fridge, pulled back, and just said ‘goodnight’, trying my best not to quite literally shove her out of the door.


So yeah, the weekend went well.


Anyway, how are all of you?


Closed Box


5 Responses to “Religion and Politics – Just Say No”

  1. Neil Manchester Says:

    Please David, next time you are going on one of these blind date things, can you offer tickets for ring-side seats? Donate the proceeds to charity, or even use it to buy the type of girl who will be whatever you want her to be, but this is such hilarious reading that it would be a sell-out I am sure.

    As far as Sara is concerned, was the whole thing a setup? How often does a girl get the better of you like this, unless its all part of a cleverly contrived reality TV type show. I’ll watch out for it on prime time TV, but hang on, I don’t have a telly so will just have to wait for the next blog episode.

    Its a shame that it takes such a crap weekend for you to really brighten up my Monday though.

  2. David Levy Says:

    Oh Neil, I am so glad it made you laugh!

    You will be happy to know that I saw the funny side of it throughout, and with every new and strange turn, I was mentally noting specifically for blog purposes…

  3. Tonje Says:

    Hahaha! (Sorrrrry, but I seriosly have to laugh at your Sara-situation)
    It seems like you have had an exciting weekend. 😉

    And to turn this over to me; my teacher just told us we can go home two hours earlier tomorrow, so I’m happyhappy!
    Eventhough the rest of my day is going to be stressful. And I’m tired.

  4. posteret Says:

    Oh no! Sounds like the date from hell, and you say a friend set you up…. lol.
    Very rude of her not to have paid her share too, I think women should always at the very least offer to pay half, afterall we all work nowadays!

    I’m sure you’ll be pleased to know that your re-telling of the evening made me laugh though – sorry!

  5. longredcape Says:

    Oh my God, that sounds awful. I can’t say I’ve ever been on a date that went that horribly. Sorry you had to pay for that bitch’s dinner!

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: