It was one of those rare Saturday nights when a half-decent band decided to play one of the satellite towns near where I lived in the North of England. This was 1980-something and mobile phones had not yet been invented, so arrangements were finalised in advance. The boyfriend would drive me, his sister and her friend into town, so they could go to the local hair metal club and get chatted up and bought drinks by men in leather trousers, puffy shirts and frizzy hair. Me and the boyfriend would go to the gig and we would all meet up afterwards and go home.
After the gig, the boyfriend and I went back to the car. I decided to wait in the car, and snooze. He was going to go to the club, find his sister, tell her we were ready to go, and come back to the car and wait with me for them. There was no point both of us paying to get in when we’d only be in there for about 20 minutes or so.
It was a proper open-air ground-level car park. I wouldn’t have waited in my own in a multi story. I hated them. It was probably because of something to do with watching ‘Death Wish’ when I was too young to understand it.
I locked the doors, reclined the front passenger seat a little, put the radio on low, and snuggled down using my coat as a blanket.
A few minutes later, I heard an obviously very drunk woman slur, “I need a wee.” I heard her stilettos scrape on the Tarmac and she bobbed down between two cars parked in front of me, hoisted up her skirt, pulled her knickers down and began to pee. I had a front-row seat. Her boyfriend was a few cars over from me. I could see the light come on as he opened the car door. I don’t know what came over me, but I briefly pressed the car horn. The toot startled her and she fell over right into the pee.
I was stifling my laughter, and hiding at the same time. She scrambled to her feet and half-slurred, half-shouted, “why d’you beep at me? You made me fall down,” over to her boyfriend. “It wasn’t me.” He shouted back. “Get in the car. You piss-head.”
They drove off to the sound of Def Leppard blasting out. A few minutes later, the boyfriend returned.
“Sorry I was ages. There’s a tour bus outside the club. It was packed inside. I nearly didn’t get in. Took me ages to find her. She said she wants to stay there a bit. So I got you these.”
“Ooh chips” I said. “Thanks. Did you do double vinegar?”
“Yes. Watch you don’t spill any on you. There’s some in the bottom of the tray. I know you like them soggy. And I put loads of salt on. For your blood pressure. No scraps though.” he replied. “They didn’t have any. That kebab meat looked disgusting. It stunk. Some bloke dropped his doner as soon as they’d given it to him, but they gave him another one. But I did remember to get you one of those little forks.”
“Plastic or wooden?”
“Anything good happen while I was gone?” He said.
“No.” I yawned. “Nothing to report.”
One thought on “10. After Show Party”
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