Hyperbole aside, last night was a little...well, special.
We went to see Mrs. Warren's Profession last night, which was quite excellent, especially the set and Mrs. Warren's amazing dresses (enter Vivian in white and Mrs. Warren in scarlet...). What made the play even better was Häagen-Dazs dixie cups at intermission - not only was food allowed in the theater, but they provided the roaming ice cream lady to sell it in the balcony. I was expecting peanuts next. Why American theaters haven't picked up on this idea is beyond me.
Leigh found a pub nearby, Footlights, and we retreated after the play for a bit of refreshment and to meet Ian when he got off work. That was when the fun began...
Let me preface this by saying that yesterday was a 6 Nations game, and that Scotland lost.
That said, the pub was packed, the patrons were loud, and the men-women ratio was something like 20 to 1. The three of us, dressed for the theater, found a table near the door, purchased drinks, and waited for Ian.
Then we started making friends.
A fairly intoxicated Scotsman, glass in hand, wandered over to ask if we'd sit with his friend, who was by himself. We explained that we were waiting for the rest of our group. Undeterred, he asked us where we were from. Our response led to a bout of "USA! USA!" and fist pumping, followed by a charming, off-key rendition of that immortal Springsteen classic, "Born in the USA," with both fists in the air. Meanwhile, we sort of laughed it off and hoped no one was going to become belligerent around us.
Dunk Boy's friend then came up, draped his arms around Leigh and Cali, and said hello. While they were extricating themselves, Drunk Boy began asking us for specific states (because that, of course, is always the next question - what begins innocently enough inevitably devolves into a geography lesson). I've learned not to say "Birmingham" because that only confuses people, especially those already under the influence, so I casually replied that I was from Alabama.
Lynyrd Skynyrd would not have been amused by what followed.
Once Drunk Boy pulled from us that we were postgraduates, he asked us where we liked to go to get "mashed and pissed." We explained that we really don't, that we're postgraduates and therefore boring.
He asked me why I wasn't drinking.
I said I wasn't thirsty.
He then dared me to get "mashed and pissed" (really, I'm not making this up) with him by doing ten shots at the bar.
I declined.
He told me I was no fun.
Somehow this led to a discussion of Britney Spears. He then invited us to go get our heads shorn that night.
We declined.
Once he started rubbing and muttering to Cali's purse, we knew he was a goner. About that time, his friend came up and started patting my head.
Never have I wanted to see Ian more than at that moment. I was telepathically willing him to walk in the door and bust the scene up (or bust someone's head open; that Sainsbury's training has to be good for something), but apparently Ian's not telepathic. Funny how that happens.
Eventually, our new good buddies wandered off, and we tried to imagine what Ian's expression would have been had he walked in. Our respite wasn't long, however, as a "ginger"-haired (yes, Ian) guy wandered over and asked if he could join us. I told him we were waiting for the rest of our party, so sorry. He walked away and kept giving our table stares of misery from across the pub.
Finally, Ian showed up, then left for the bar to procure more cider. In his absence, the redhead's wingman, who was decidedly closer to sober, came over, apologized for his friend, asked if he had been rude, and said that he really wanted to talk to us. We explained the situation, and then invited both of them to pull up a seat.
Ian seemed nonplussed by the situation when they pulled up a bench.
Cali, bless her heart, took one for the team by entertaining Gordon, the redhead, for the better part of half an hour. Apparently, Gordon not only asked her where she was from five times, he told her his entire life story in unnecessary detail. He then stood up to get another Guinness.
Meanwhile, I was talking sports with Finn the Wingman, which was actually fun. I learned about these things called "firms" in football clubs, which are essentially gangs that beat each other up at match time. Then there was talk of rugby, ice hockey, field hockey, and shinty, which is little more than open warfare, leading me to surmise that sport over here could do with a lot more padding. Talk then turned to Inevitable Subject #2, Iraq.
Almost makes me want to get the Canadian backpack flag and perfect my "Eh?"
Still, relations were cordial enough, and Finn left to answer a phone call while Cali excused herself. In the meantime, Gordon returned with a new pint of Guinness, noticed that he still had a bit left in his other glass, and tried to pour the remnant into a full pint. Beer flowed onto the table, I pulled Cali's oh-so-strokable purse out of the way, and then tried to engage Gordon to give Cali a break. The boy was on his way out, but was coherent enough to tell me he was from Dundee.
"How's that?" I asked.
He explained that Dundee was shite, and then told me about his brother getting cut in the face with a beer bottle.
When Cali and Finn returned, Gordon told Finn to tell us an embarrassing story, at which point Finn's muttered conversations to Gordon to stop making an ass of himself increased in frequency. Finn wondered aloud what the hell had happened to the beer, then berated Gordon for trying to defy physics. Gordon left to find a paper towel, but returned with a bar rag and promptly wiped Guinness onto Finn.
Cali and I backed away.
There was no fighting, but Finn explained that he'd already taken Gordon's brother home that evening. He then left to bum a smoke off someone and headed outside for a break.
We left Gordon sitting alone at the table with his two pints of Guinness, then made our way back to our side of town. Ian performed rather well his role of Being Intimidating and Manly as we passed the pubs. As we approached the halfway point, he hinted that we should stop for pizza.
Well, it was almost 1 AM, and I hadn't yet had dinner.
After eating pizza upstairs, I returned to my room to find that my mother was in a mild panic as to my whereabouts. I vaguely remember calling her and mentioning something about the pub, then stumbled into bed, where my head promptly began to pound. I don't know why.
I still had a headache when I woke this morning, but the contraband Tylenol fixed that quickly enough. Thanks, Mom.
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