God, what happened? I used to be able to handle these things. I used to be someone I could trust. Warily, mind, cos I've seen the look in my eyes sometimes. Shifty bastard.
Anyhoo, t'was only the other weekend, when Gerry, Lorna and Tara arrived for the Bank Holiday, and drinking was occuring. The Friday started well enough, I blagged an early exit from work to go meet Gerry, even though he wasn't due until at least an hour after my shift would normally end. Hahaa! Freedom from the shackles! Freedom to just sit in the bloody flat anyways, but free from the office-bollocks for an illicit extra hour! And if they expect that hour back, then they may as well ask about all the hours I'm there but not actually working! Goddamn you Foxworth by the way, you're encouraging me to the dole! Damn you with your anti-work website propaganda! Damn you to Hades!!!
But I digress. So I'm in the flat, rocking the tunes, waiting for the man, and thinking that I'm giving a big fuck you to The Man by skipping work early, when I get the call. Gerry's due at the station soon. Time to depart. Head full of enthusiasm for the days ahead, tunes, and the memory of where the bloody station is, off I scoot. Planning a heavy weekend of debauchery, I bought a ten box of smokes on the way to the station, totally giving up on the giving up of smoking that I'd done admirably well for two weeks so far. Fucking weakling! Colon, dash, left bracket, ANGRY FACE!
We meet, we drink, we go out. We meet some of my work colleagues (all female) in the pub after the works-do I didn't go to that eve (lost my fiver deposit on the meal, but sod it, my mate's in town) and I'm getting on with no-one. I'm trying to be nice, chat to them, take-the-hand in a playful way, but they're taking my humour the wrong way. No one laughs. I used to be funny, I think, but now I feel like such a charmless man.
There's a bloke out with them, called Lewis, and since he's actually been chatting away I invite him back to the flat. He's up for the party, and invites me and Gerry to his restaurant first, which is closed so it's the three of us, taking turns behind the bar to pour the cocktails. I'm bending everyones ear about the virtues of The Thing (1982). We go back to the flat with a hearty stash of liqour and good banter. Of course I put the film on.
Halfway through and Gerry crashes out on the big sofa, so it's just me and Lewis on the smaller one. Just as it gets to my favourite scene, I notice Lewis' hand creeping slowly up my thigh. But, starting half way up my thigh, his finger is already creeping a bit too close to the tip of something else for comfort. Goddammit, watch The Thing (1982), don't grab the Thing (born 1982)!
How to react in these situations? Like I normally do when someone tries it on with me. Awkward, blunt, and maybe a bit stuttering, I suggest he cool it. And WATCH THE GODDAMN FILM! IS NO-ONE WATCHING THE GODDAMN FILM?! He soon leaves. Again, I feel like such a charmless man. What happened to me? I used to be cool! I'm sure in my younger days I would've had a hilarious rejoinder to change the subject, everyone would laugh, and we'd all have cake. Or something. Not now though, now all I've got is blunt. And it leaves me feeling very, very blunt.
Ah well, there's the rest of the weekend right? Another couple of days to get back on track, to think sharp, and act oh so bloody witty? Witty like a fox! Yeah! Like a cunning, foxy, musky, witty fox! You'll all see! So...
With a premise like that, I can see, in retrospect, we were all doomed.
The rest of the weekend was at least consistent, in that I got drunk (but not messed up, just sociable, like) and every joke I tried to crack was met by stony faces. And this was from my girlfriend and close associates. An outsider at the next table would've thought I was some loser who'd grabbed a spare seat next to some strangers. My girlfriend and close associates just wished I would grab a spare seat next to some strangers. And as every joke died a peaceful death, I whispered to Gerry for the nth time " God, I feel like such a charmless man". My catchphrase for the weekend.
To top it all off, on the last night, when everyone else is gettiing into good spirits, I'm trying to slip off home early, citing bad popcorn from the cinema for the reason my whole inside hurts. Maybe it was the popcorn, maybe it was the overlong, underinteresting film I'd just consumed (Robin Hood. Pants.), maybe it was the onslaught of booze, or maybe it was my own body rejecting me and all I'd put everyone through. It was probably the popcorn though.
And then the weekend was over. Everyone had to get back to real life, including me. As they packed their bags and got ready to leave, I brushed my teeth, and caught my reflection in the mirror. Jesus, when did that happen?! A knackered, tired face staring back at me, I can see the growing army of grey hairs crawling out of my mind, and the wrinkles on my brow, resembling a cracked window. A charmless face for a charmless man. The rest of the day is spent feeling old and fucked, quietly shaking on the sofa, unable to do much of anything. My brain fuddled with the hangover, and full of thoughts about my lost youth, I wonder, is this it? Is this me now, til the end of my charmless life? A charmless man with nothing interesting to say, with nothing interesting to do, a knackered face for a knackered soul? I go to bed early, compounding my old-man malaise, the thought of a life lived and finished before I'm Thirty. And in bed before ten thirty.
When the alarm goes off for work the next day, I feel great! The shackles of inebriations/hangovers both out of my system, I can face anything! I bound off to the office of idiocy, ineptitude, casual racism and bullshit, and remember; at least I'm not one of these sad bastards! I'm above their corporate bollocks jargon, flow-charts and dead-endery. Of course, when I say this to them it goes down like a lead balloon, but sod it. The charmless man is alive and well, but at least I'm feeling sharp again. The charm will return.
