I’m at an age now where it feels like my body is finally rebelling because of years of abuse. Nowadays, it’s got more of a grip on the wheel and won’t allow me to do certain things that I used to do frequently.
Beer after 8pm? Dream on, my body is well tuned and trained in protocols such as ‘Sofa napping’ and ‘homing beacon’ to nip these at the source. Within my circle of friends, I’m the eldest by a few years and although this has been a frequent source of jibes towards me since our mid-twenties, some of their jabs have now actually begun to carry some truth. I’m not entirely denying it; times have changed and with the saucy addition of a Crohn’s diagnosis, my body no longer permits me to being a weekend drinking gladiator.
But slowly but surely, I’ve seen other friends cross the threshold to a life indoors. Where adult conversations consist of topics like mortgage rates, the economy and how terrible everything is, rather than how many tinnies you can get for a tenner or the latest adolescent drama from the previous night.
But there are those who sadly remain; Those whose main form of cutting loose is hitting the town and every pub in the high street followed by a stomach curdling amount of other regrettable spirits. A friend still on the other side of the veil, reluctantly clutching to their youth by their fingernails and living their best life. Either way, I find that these people are inevitable.
For the purposes of this story, this friend is Tarquin. To give you some context, I’m roughly three and a half years older than Tarquin, and Two and a half years older than Burty.
Now, although my love for Tarquin runs deep, the best way I can describe him is as a ‘Rahh’ wielding social chameleon and protector of the ‘Bants’. His dream birthday is a weekend away with the lads in Ibiza, and he often resembles a peacock,-or more accurately, a pigeon when he’s out. He enjoys the Transformers movies, any movies with explosions and loved The Wolf of Wall street.
Getting ready for work in the morning? ‘Slap on an Alien film, they’re banging!’
Nurturing a hangover with breakfast? ‘Pop some Narcos on mate.’
Splitting headache and feeling like you’ve got a planet falling out of your arse? ‘Fear not!-The Band of Brothers boxset should sort you right out.’
Rain or shine, when Tarquin goes to bed, it’s to the sound of machine guns and bombers. It’s quite endearing, although I doubt his girlfriend approves. But although ‘he who must party’ and I are nowadays worlds apart in terms of social circles. There’s still an underlying deep friendship at its core from shared highs and woes of our youth. In another timeline we would have gone our separate ways after college and our paths never would have crossed again, apart from maybe a weird dinner story anecdote about that weird older guy at college. Although for whatever reasons, weirdness prevailed and I’m confident I’ve got another actual friend that isn’t Burty.
Consequently, there’s one day of the year that all my hermitting, weirdness, anxiety and quirks can’t escape: Tarquin’s birthday. Ordinarily this would be an event filled with the indulgence and grandeur that required shirts and ‘nice shoes’, and was a welcomed event diligently marked on the calendar and promptly booked off work. But as the years rolled on, this became more of a challenging event of endurance which you often had to push through. I found that although the experience was an important rite of passage to celebrate, they were beginning to feel like a military tour where each sequel was bigger, bolder than the last and with brasher ramifications for my organs. On the other hand, Burty often saw this as a brilliant opportunity to step outside his comfort zone and meet new people with the help of Tarquin’s Jedi social skills. So once again with the day on the horizon, I received a call to arms and the weekend plans were in motion. I was Rambo getting summoned for one last job, Dr Alan Grant returning to Jurassic Park, Murtaugh coming out of retirement, and quite rightly so, I was getting too old for this shit.
For the record, this isn’t a situation where you’re forced to drink, but more of an evening built on strategic manoeuvres that place you in an environment where its often necessary or essential to drink. So far as to say, this often means it’s going to be an uncomfortable evening filled with drinking entrapment, where sooner or later the odds are going to be stacked against you and its merely a matter of time until you fold. But to add to this, there’s only so many times I can be outnumbered and told to ‘Get the sand out of my vagina’ or ‘Stop being a puss’ before I succumb to my fate. In a nutshell, you’ve got more than chance of Boris Johnson rubbering up than Tarquin not going out.
One time I’d travelled down to visit Tarquin on a weekend during university. I was getting in late and pleaded with Tarquin for an evening of catching up, discussing the topics of the day and braiding our hair. This also left room for video games, good food and good company. My cries were met with smiles and rains of reassurance throughout my journey. However, upon stepping out of a taxi and approaching Tarquin’s door, my bag was snatched, I was handed a pair of ‘nice shoes’, and I was bundled into the back of a taxi, jostled, and rushed like a pop star fleeing the paparazzi.
Another time, Tarquin visited me during university and was insistent that he scoped out the lay of the land in search for a fair maiden. Although I insisted there wasn’t anywhere to his liking, we resorted to visiting an establishment widely considered The Worst Night Club in Britain. Although I could appreciate the knee jerk curiosity in such a venue, and how we marvelled at the centrepiece pyramid of glasses in the urinals, caked in piss. But the club also had a policy of laying down sawdust in the event of any unscheduled oratory or gastrological emissions from its clients. Not spilt drinks, they were 10p a pint on Mondays. But after Tarquin got into a heated debate in the toilets over the difference between a handkerchief and a pocket square, we soon left.
I don’t mind going out and seeing beyond the realm of my four walls, but not every time. I’d at least appreciate a discussion about it. But clearly as I got older, the spontaneity of a night out was wasted on me. But with Tarquin’s Birthday, there were no excuses. As well as this, something unfortunate tends to inevitably occur on Tarquin’s birthday and over the years, it’s become a loaded gun we tend to silently dreed. Life takes something back after Tarquin’s birthday and its often cemented into the tapestry of our friendship and destined to be told forever. Whether its Burty deciding to spontaneously shave his hair off, someone falling and temporarily drowning in a lake or convincing someone they’re a ghost; it was a certainty I’d manage to avoid over the years. However, no parties had happened during covid, so it felt like something was in the post. I could feel it in my bones…
In a fever of excitement, Burty had decided to head down a day earlier, on the Friday. Doe-eyed with possibilities and keen to make the most of the weekend, he packed his finest garments and summoned a rider. However, as I have a job more boring and pointless than a lifeguard at the Olympics swimming final, I would join the celebrations early afternoon on the Saturday.
For some reason nowadays I find if I have to travel far or commute, I’ll often feel a sudden, intense wave of nausea; to the point where I’ll consider cancelling the trip. But once the doors on the train have squeaked shut, I’m usually fine. I don’t look too much into the cause of this, other than I’m old, and confident no one really likes leaving their nest. But Saturday morning arrived and with the necessary, tasty safeguards and hangover protocols put in place, I dragged my heels and threw myself onto the train for my impending doom.
My fate was sealed and my journey to Neverland had begun.
Whilst on route, I tried to contact my scout, but Burty wasn’t responsive. My mind ran wild with irrational logic and possibilities that Tarquin had already claimed his first victim. Although I was still a few hours away, all I could do was wince and contemplate the dub-step fate that awaited me.
I knew this was a bad idea…
But around an hour or so later, ‘He who Rahs’ reached out and although my nerves dialled back, I was still cautious. Tarquin re-assured me that it was all a misunderstanding; Burty’s phone had died, and he was currently taking a bath; a simple case of phone negligence with the excitement of seeing olds friends. He went on to add that although last night was slightly rowdier than anticipated, the ‘Rahs’ were in and round two was ready to launch. At this point I wasn’t concerned; Tarquin’s alibi sounded genuine, Burty loves a bath. Although he can never find one to fit in; it’s like watching an adult bath in a washing up bowl.
Around a billion years later when I finally arrived in Neverland; I planted myself on the station platform, bought a much-needed coffee and re-assured myself that in 24 hours I would be on route back home.
I will say this about Neverland, it’s a rather nice area and it’s more than likely one of the reasons I moved away; I suppose I was a bit ‘povvo’ in comparison with my lack of pocket squares and brogues. But it has an old-fashioned train station with a level crossing that announces its dropping barrier with a deafening whine, about 10 years before the actual train arrives. But whilst I grappled with my bags and attempted to camouflage to my surroundings, I noticed a cowering grey looking figure on the other platform. At first glance I thought it might be someone homeless; I see a lot around where I live, but not in Neverland. But before I knew it, a train blocked my sight and in true 90’s thriller fashion, the figure was lost within the crowd and forgotten.
I then headed to the supermarket with haste to purchase my drinks for the night; I felt this was a bold, strong move that would draw a line in the sand and make a statement on my stance for drinking that evening; He might think it’s bold or garish; he might even compliment my foresight and praise my organisational skills.
However, I was intercepted by Tarquin as I turned a corner to the supermarket. He stood by the entrance wearing a shirt with one or two too many buttons undone, pulled down his aviator glasses and looked to be licking his lips with anticipation. We exchanged pleasantries and during a firm, manly embrace, I noticed Tarquin had put his own measures in place, and already had a trolly filled with an eye watering assortment spirits. I’d been rumbled and cut off at the source; a bold pre-emptive move but one he seemed happy to cover the cost. With veiled shudders hidden behind a smile, I suggested we get moving before he second guesses his quantities.
The walk back to Tarquin’s from the town centre takes about 25 minutes and consisted of further pleasantries and how dos before we’re fully locked back into familiar territory; But I could tell something’s off. With the sun shining down and noticing the lack of shade, I brought up the topic of Burty’s whereabouts. Tarquin quickly rebuts that he’s at home and he’s feeling a bit worse for wear than initially thought. Shocker! I smelled a rat. I sighed and dived deeper down the rabbit hole; convinced I can already start hearing the Dubstep.
Where’s Burty? I asked.
After a symphony of mumbles and pauses whilst climbing a hill, Tarquin finally responded with ‘He’s gone home’ followed by a wide eyed, belly ached cackle; I’d been set-up.
Tarquin spun Burty’s tale of woe and jested how Burty didn’t have it in him anymore. Instead, Burty had left in the early hours of the morning but after falling asleep in a bush, he’d manged to catch a train home at around the same time I arrived. Although I humoured and chuckled and the misfortune of my comrade, I was more than suspicious. Once arriving at the Tarquin’s lair, I peeled off to the bathroom to make my own enquiries.
I reached out to a frail, weak Burty who confirmed that he was the Grey, withered figure I saw at the station when my train pulled in. Although he tried to call out and warn me, his hushed cries were faint and fell on deaf ears. But although his life force was weak, he had zero regrets for leaving the birthday shenanigans early. Before ending the call, Burty tried to leave me with some insight or advice for the upcoming evening celebrations. But instead, I got an Abe Simpson equivalent as he spluttered incoherent, repeated madness about the previous night’s antics and pleaded with me to heed his warning. I returned to Tarquin and after seeing how happy he was for me making the journey and the appreciation for being there to celebrate when him, I felt my window of opportunity to leave had closed.
But then, more guests arrived.
Yay!
I could smell the cologne through the front door.
The beginning of the celebrations was spent catching up and lulling with others over of Burty’s early demise and how the mighty had fallen. As Tarquin regaled his new-found audience with the fanfare of the previous night, it was declared that Burty had claimed this year’s traditional title of buffoonery and shame. Although this was met with approving cheers and laughs, there was an element of uncertainty and false optimism in the air. Whilst some relished and laughed at Burty’s misfortune and long journey home, the Members of our congregation who were strong with the ‘Rah’, stood around and congratulated each other on their level of ‘bants’. As the evening crept in, I kept my cards close to my chest and expertly dodged invitations to shots and other seductive drinking games. Other than that, I ‘Rah’d’ where appropriate and tried my best to camouflage and mingle with a group of men with the same quaffed haircut and musk of leather.
But then whispers of venturing into town inevitably begun; I wouldn’t be able to hide behind my conveniently well-timed sips or pretend phone calls anymore; I’d be going off the grid and at the mercy of rounds. It’s for his birthday, it’s for his birthday I told myself. But I could feel myself starting to sweat.
The last thing I recall was leaving Tarquin’s; he lived in a high up flat and I remember the overwhelming sterile smell of paint in the stairwell. Nevertheless, I’d love to elaborate further on the shenanigans that occurred, but they’re neither applicable nor interesting to the story. But secondly, I would need a mountain of paper, several balls of yarn and a map to adequately give it credit or describe it. Needless to say, the night didn’t end and as time went on, Burty’s mad ramblings started ringing true.
It had been a while since I’d visited and stayed with Tarquin, and I’d spent most of my morning travels contemplating the reason why. The distance, travel time, not my bed and the usual gubbins were thrown into the pot. But none of them particularly stood out as red flags. But once I was back at Tarquin’s, the rose-tinted glasses were quickly removed, and I soon remembered. The problem with Tarquin or staying on a friend’s sofa once you’ve passed the age of 30, is you can’t go to sleep. Other than the reasons mentioned in previous posts including a live morning show of my balls and arse, there’s another reason why I loathe sleeping on people’s sofas with a seething fiery hatred.
If the host wants to stay up, you’re staying up.
If the host has decided to have a spontaneous party and your bedroom is the lounge, it’s a ball ache. But also, whilst you stare longingly at the soft to the touch fabric cushions that you could be nestling yourself into, the sofa becomes home to every flatulent cough. Whilst the former wasn’t a problem in my teens or twenties; I’d surf every sofa going and often wake up with an eager wonderment to where I was. But like all retired weekend warriors, I’ve started my regeneration to my final form of Grandpa Bucket, and I hear my bed a’ calling me in the wind. Another factor that’d slipped my ever-ageing Biden brain, was Tarquin’s sleep set-up. Tarquin’s hosting etiquette was supreme when it came to breakfasts, showers, baths, and nothing short of a back rub. When it came to sleeping however, you were given a blanket thinner than toilet paper and smaller than an actual napkin to keep warm. In addition, although the flat is situated high-up, the walls of windows are curtainless, and the room becomes a hub of blistering, blinding light in the mornings, where every neighbour or house nearby can watch as you slowly melt.
I like to think I’m too polite to say anything, or maybe it’s the repressed Englishman in me. But after failing to find the equivalent of a cupboard under the stairs for some sleep away from the noise and ‘bants’, I began to wonder again. Surely Tarquin was aware of the sleeping predicament? Especially with Burty’s encounter last night; Someone must have brought it up in the past. Feeling riled, fragile and adamant for peace, I caught Tarquin in the hallway and explained the situation. But when the moment came, my protests were muted and swatted aside by my unbeguiling host. Instead, over the next few hours I rained down my finest huffs and eye rolls in silent protest. I longed for an audiobook and the warm embrace of my duvet. However instead, more people turned up.
Where’s a screaming pillow when you need one? Oh wait, it’s probably covered in someone’s guff…
As the toilet was clearly in the eye of the storm and the only bed was occupied by Tarquin’s dozing partner, I opted for the only other available space, The Hallway. As the night went on, the cheers, laughs, drama, and other conversational fallouts rained down and grew louder and more rambunctious. Meanwhile through paper thin walls, I began to silently stew further. I contemplated a taxi and prayed to the Uber Gods for a merciful quote, but alas I soon discovered that I’m far from Mr Beast money, and the mission was swiftly aborted. Stuck in a purgatory between evening and morning, lounge, and bathroom; I felt like I’d come to the final stage of grief and accepted the remainder of my sentence. A visionary former politician from Gotham City once said, “The night is always darkest just before the dawn.”, and my god was he right.
After trying to count my individual leg hairs to pass my time in the can, at around 4:20 my body went into revolt; it took full control of the wheel and things began to take a turn. It may have been down to tiredness, being hangry, the aching cold in my bones or having an elderly moment. But I remember Tarquin coming out of the bathroom after powdering his nose and asking if I was okay. I remember waffling gibberish about the situation and delivering a brief, cringy lecture on the etiquette to hosting, along with the benefits of falling asleep to an audiobook, before grabbing my bag and vacating the flat. Looking back, it must have been a challenge trying to translate my ramblings between my quivering pitch and desperate efforts not to cry. But at the time, I remember feeling empowered and feeling like it was a momentous moment, and that’s all that mattered. I was Spartacus, standing up for what’s right against the odds and proclaiming no more! But with a Bridget Jones-esque zing to it.
But like Icarus, I flew too close to the sun, and this was the first domino in a line of some rather unfortunate events.
As I proudly strutted away from the block of flats like a proud peacock with my chest puffed out, I started to take stock of the situation. It was around 5.00am on a Sunday in a small town reminiscent of Balamory and it was freezing. Feeling particularly foolhardy and puffed up, I decided to press on and venture into town.
I passed as much time as I could visiting old haunts and taking in the morning calm, however these moments became harder to enjoy as the winds began to roar and the constipated warmth from my tantrum began to wear off. So, I picked up the pace and made my way in search of coffee and warmth. But alas, you’ve got more luck growing a tail or getting slapped by Will Smith than getting a coffee this early on a Sunday. After clumsily walking into several coffee shops whilst looking like a dishevelled hamster, I was advised and assured by all the lovely staff standing around that they weren’t open. No worries, I get it- I stink.
But this wasn’t my only issue. Whether it was the alcohol, food or (not to make it too sexy) my Crohn’s ‘, but’ there was something in the morning post and rather than leave it by the door, the delivery driver was kicking it through the post slot. But with nowhere open and time running out, options were depleting fast. Before you say, “Why didn’t you go back to Tarquin’s?” I’d given this some serious thought, although it was risky. Not only could Tarquin potentially be tucked up in bed, but after my Spicy Spartacus moment, I wasn’t sure my request to destroy his lavatory would be welcomed or allowed. Regardless, I wasn’t in a position to risk a 20 to25-minute walk and several flights of stairs to bank on Tarquin’s good graces: I’m not a gambling man. But admittedly, I was also too proud and stubborn, but being proud comes at a price…
Whilst frantically trying to sort through the logistics and practicalities of my predicament, I rattled my brain for any past knowledge or wisdom on the hometown. Any shops, facilities, discreet off the beaten track nooks or hideaway spots. But with all my concentration focused on clenching, I quickly ventured back to the high street for any hope or sign of retail life. To my surprise I found a 7-Eleven corner shop and I was convinced God was smiling down on me.
Whilst I flapped my arms at the cashier like a panicked chicken and tried to explain the issue at hand, my pleas fell on deaf ears as he unfortunately didn’t speak English. It sounds presumptuous of me to say, but I say this because other than a rushed, polite greeting, the only recorded response was “Thank you” followed by an uplifting, reassuring smile and an unblinking stare. In any chance, after a few minutes I didn’t feel like I had the grit or time for morning charades. So, in a moment of weakness, I made a rushed purchase for Kleenex and regrettably turned to plan B. If that cashier did understand what I was saying, he’s a sadist and entirely responsible for what happens next.
I felt like The Doctor about to regenerate; slumped and weak, pulling myself along in search for somewhere safe and out of harm’s way of civilians. My dashes turned to waddles, and my body tightened as I threw my bag across my other shoulder and limped on as the weight pulled me down. I was sweating, heaving and very close to growing that tail. I scuttled to the local park like a creature from the black lagoon whilst clocking every closed shop sign, each one another kick in the Crohn’s.
But one of the first world problems with Neverland is it’s the equivalent of Midsomer Murders meets Sandhurst from Hot Fuzz. You can almost guarantee there’s a picture of it on a tea towel or box of chocolates somewhere, it still has a local milkman, and its primarily made up of the elderly and Tories. It’s a bit like defecating on Antiques Roadshow or Songs of Praise. Within the realm of Neverland, I was out of options. The park in question is known as an AONB (Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty), not that it helps the situation at all, but I suppose it’s better than doing it on a seesaw at your local park.
I eventually found a patch off the beaten track and shielded from the elements. Within milliseconds my pants were dropped, and Houston had cleared me for launch. Needless to say, after a short standing labour, the evil was banished to the leafy wooden ground and I’m glad I had my Crohn’s medication with me.
However, from the leafy undergrowth presently threatening my undercarriage, to what was about to happen, it was clear I wasn’t out of the woods just yet.
At this point the fog of desperation began to lift, and the realisation of what I had done was beginning to sink in. Scattered and horrified at my actions, I attempt to clean myself up one grizzly, sad tissue at a time and make my escape out of the shrubbery. I wish I could say that this was the end of my story, and that I hadn’t at that moment realised that I was being observed in my moment of shame and relief by a nearby dog. I don’t know how long it had been there, but its eyes were wide, and its tail was furiously wagging. I froze in disbelief like I’d seen a unicorn or been caught with my pants down, which I suppose is understandable. But although my brain longed for me to believe that I’d found a morning hot spot hangout for lonely, country dogs to do their business. It quickly dawned on me that where there’s a dog, there’s an owner.
Then… those terrible words, sung in that unmistakeable lilt reserved only for the calling of man’s best friend.
“Lady…”
“Lady where are you girl?”
I shimmy and shoo the dog but it’s no use, she barks with excitable confusion at the waddling figure as if it’s some sort of game.
“I think she’s in there…” another young voice calls.
Fuck you! No- she isn’t!
I hear the crunching of twigs and leaves under boots, and I go into survival mode. I don’t think the flat capped, welly wearing, signet ringed, country quaffing gentlemen saw me, but I can only apologise. I caught a glimpse of his face as his eyes were drawn down to my morning, misshapen Quasimodo. But I submerged myself into the shrubbery and disappeared like Rambo; but with his pants down and covered in s**t and shame. I don’t think he’ll ever forget it and I’m sure he had many questions. But again, I can only apologise; that’s bound to have dampened his Sunday..
Though in fear of a hot, waddling pursuit, I navigated the woods I’d frequented in my teens until I came to a quiet side road and gave him the slip. I decided I’d follow the road and double back to the station via town. But first I needed to create some distance between me and the crime scene and get cleaned up.
I can only apologise once again to the unfortunate rural residents for what happened next. For on this day of worship, instead of the residents of Neverland opening their country wooden shutters to let in the Sunday air. They witnessed a man is his thirties trying to simultaneously, waddle, wipe and pull up his trousers whilst struggling with his bag.; It seemed no one was safe from my inhumanity. After exchanging screams, I once again found myself wildly waddling back to the park via the woods to escape; but to only be welcomed by Roherum of morning dog walkers on the horizon.
Hello shrubbery my old friend…
Feeling cornered like a shitty rat, I pulled up my trousers and tracked along the perimeter fence until I finally came to a clearing. I sleuthed through the high street and to the station whilst filled with a deep sense of shame and relief. I boarded my train like it was the last flight out of Saigon and lay back in the remnants of my filth and sin. I ignored the looks, comments and whispers and knowing full well the journey ahead was long, I fell back asleep confident in the knowledge that the residents of Neverland should never see my kind again.
Upon returning home I was met by Burty at the door who had made good use of my hangover safeguards I’d left in place before leaving, but it didn’t matter.
We wept and laughed through our pain, and I shared my story. For my sins, this is the story of Tarquin’s birthday and has since been weaved into the tapestry of shame within our friendship.
Happy birthday, buddy. Until new year…
Until next year…
