One Whiskey, One Bourbon, and One Beer.

So, I lied about the beer bit. And the whisky, I think. And Bourbon I just can't take. Tastes like stale mule piss. I don't know how much I had to drink last night - it's positively teenage to keep count - but I do know that I walked home from Chapelallerton at four in the morning howling my way through "Chet Baker Sings" and crashed without taking my boots off or washing or cleaning my teeth. The face in the mirror just now was that of someone who has spent the night under Leeds Bridge giving sloppy blow jobs to guys thrown out of The Red Lion for being too tattoed. This is obviously hyperbole, or metaphorical or whatever - the point is I look like shit, and feel like death warmed up.

Just an average night then. All part of the project of distraction, avoidance, self-indulgence and denial which has become a sort of theme of my life at present. Not a lifestyle choice that would suit many, but fulfilling in it's own manner, especially the bit involving meaningless sex with random women. It's a numbers game this though, and it's as often a catastrophic horror as it is a sublime delight.

Last nights assignation fell into the category of full-on disaster.

I'm going to give her the fake internet name of Griselda, firstly because the name is frankly risible, and secondly because she reminded me of an insufferable and noted professor of feminist art theory at my local university. Griselda has stood me up twice in the past fortnight; like I said it's a numbers game and I always have a Plan B for just such an eventuality. Anyway, she always apologised promptly and teased that she would make it up to me somehow, so when she got in touch on Monday and invited me round to her house for drinks later that evening I didn't think it extraordinary that I should consider myself on a promise. She did mention, however, that her friend Janet would be popping in and maybe Paul and John her gay neighbors from the house behind. Quite the soiree I thought, but hey I'm a sociable kind of guy and had nothing much on that evening, so why not indeed.

I went prepared; two bottles of the wine she'd mentioned she liked and a handful of condoms. It's not presumption, simply prudence. Her house is only a short walk away but I was still a little late as is my wont; didn't want to look too keen, not after she'd already been so cavalier about previous arrangements.

She was on the phone when I arrived, having what sounded like a heated debate, so I stationed myself near the bookcase and proceeded to make like I was fascinated with her library. Actually I was quite impressed, and I made some approving comment when she finally finished her phone call and also mentioned that I liked the stripped oak original floorboards, thus showing my advanced proficiency in phatic communication. This proved to be the pinnacle of the evenings jollifications.

As my brain is still not capable of relating a decent narrative it will be easier if I did a kind of top 10 things that were wrong with the evening. Here goes:

1. Who in their right mind would begin an evenings shenanigans with a conversation about their current partner (and, yes, this was news to me, though not in itself a moral impediment) and his penchant for sexual sadism? Gareth, Gawain, Garaint, whatever his name was it sounded like he had a place reserved at the round table, so I'll call the fucker Galahad - so Galahad also was also in the closet according to her. She'd filched his credit card statement and hacked into his email accounts, confronted him about his subscriptions to to sites such as TGB (Trans-Gender Babes for all you curious types) and wanted to know if she should out him to his mother and sister. I'd walked through the door barely 7 minutes previously and I hadn't even had a glass placed in my possession and I was already involved in seedy sexual deviant practices and was being recruited as an ally in a campaign to humiliate a guy I hadn't even met. Heavy shit man!

2. All night my opinion was courted, not just over whether she should use the information she had gained illicitly and possibly illegally to force Galahad's alleged sexual orientation into the light, but over the least random, insignificant, uninteresting conundrum. As soon she found out what I used to as a job she decided I was to be tapped as a free source of advice concerning the mental health aspect of each and every question. Was it a result of deep rooted family trauma that he did not reveal that he smoked to his family? Was she being a victim of codependent dynamics if she allowed herself to be fucked in ways she found disgusting, humiliating and painful? Was it the case that a bullying and controlling mother could be the crucible for her son's forays into the domain of dominance and submission? Did I think that the youth in South Leeds were too spoiled by the me me me culture and dependence on the welfare state? Why was it that aboriginal Australians lost their spirit and died whilst some other races thrived in imperialist shackles?

Believe me, I could go on. Oh, the thigh slapping, belly laughing time we were having.

3. She seemed to think that all her problems with relating to men were caused by her looks. She referred to herself as fat and plain and related some sad story about her dad telling her that no man would look twice at her because she wasn't gorgeous like her sister. Well, way to go father. Now I think that's child abuse, and that's my sincere diagnosis as an experienced mental health worker. As tactfully as I was able I proffered the opinion that she was hardly a heiffer and lot's of men would find her attractive (obviously I was trying to be sensitive and non-commital, I didn't want to give the impression that she made any part of my chemistry set fizzle).

4. Her self-esteem slump was more than over-compensated for by her exaggerated sense of her own intelligence. Twice she let me know that her IQ was 167 and she was in Mensa. What a fucking surprise! No social skills to speak of and only gets to fuck damaged, deranged and delinquent blokes, but she's a right old whizz at those infuriatingly dull and pointless puzzles that ask which is the next shape/number/fucking picture in this progression. Lady, it ain't your size or shape or face, it's yer attitude that needs mending.

5. It wasn't just that she kept harping on about what a bluestocking she was (though it has to be mentioned that she had obviously never seriously been challenged regarding her own estimation, and loads of things she said were just wrong - Virginia fucking Woolf was bipolar not a schizo, basic bastard facts!). Apparently her dad was on the olympic committee which chose the Australian national team, her favourite uncle designed one of the most significant weapons systems in WW2, garaunteeing the survival of Western democracy, she knows Rupert Murdoch personally and is best friends with Australia's number one pop star - unfortunately not Kylie (I must admit I was kinda warming to her when I thought I might get to meet the diminutive diva) but some sad old guy I've never heard of. Fuck off you self-deluding nutter.

6. She talked incessantly about work. She has a boss called Rebecca. And guess what, we call her "The Bexter". Oh, we're mad us youth workers, we're a crazy whacky bunch. Have to be. Couldn't cope otherwise. Oh, fucking spare us you sad little fruit loop. If I ever found myself wanting to shag the female version of David Brent I'd have enough residual insight I'm sure to check myself into the nearest clinic for the currently insane.

7. She was in fact quite dim and a bit slack. She related a tedious tale about a previous beau (one more in a short string of terminally inadequate tossers) who impressed her by mentioning, apropos of nothing, John Dos Passos. This apparently indicated his great depth of knowledge and breadth of culture. Did it bollocks! The fuckwit was a bleeding librarian, he'd just memorised the frigging Dewey catalogue and hadn't quite got up to the equally dull and wordy American C list author, Theodore Dreiser!

8. Aren't people sad who think it's the height of cool to have gay mates? And drag John and Paul - they're lovely, really they are a scream, and I can hear them going at it through the walls, they have such a fantastic physical relationship - into every conversation. Let's not forget the Devster, aka Sukhdev a sikh shirtlifter who's busy bumming his way around the learning difficulties section of a social sevices department in a dismal local shit-hole town. Christ, if I was forced to live and work in Batley I might resort to a bit of buggery to liven up my day too, so good luck to the enterprising fellow. It's a minimally amusing anecdote, but it doesn't make the teller at the cutting edge of sexual liberation. Grow up please!

9. I fancied her friend Janet. She had the voice of Jenny Agutter (ask any guy my age, American Werewolf in London! we all played the sex scene time and time again and indulged in fetid fantasies over the lovely Ms Agutter) and a cheeky smile. So my hopes and other bits were raised with the thought that this may get interesting. Of course it didn't. Nice but dim, overly impressed with Griselda's pseudo intellectual confidence and oblivious to the fact that it was just the flimsiest pretence. Shame, really, because I so would have.

10. Griselda was not the hostess with the mostess. She'd sat in front of the fire all the while devouring Chicken bhaji's. She did know that I'm a veggie, so I did think it a bit rum, but I could forgive the food faux pas. Wasn't hungry anyhow, but I did have a thirst on me. Now I brought two bottles of very nice organic white. Griselda had opened her bottle of red, and between the three of us by 10:45 all but half a glass of the red had gone. I had my drinking brakes on still, but I wanted another glass. So I asked to open the white and sank a rapid glass and refilled. By 11:30 as Janet was leaving there was only a drop of white left and Griselda made a big fuss of glugging it into my expectant glass before she planted herself down for her next monologue concerning the benefits of eco-tourism reaped by under priviledged pre-schoolers in Fuerta Ventura (I have been guilty of exaggeration before if I thought a story would benefit from a bit of a lift, but I swear this is exactly what happened). I finished the half-glass in a steady 10 minutes, enjoying the distance the drink was opening between my booze-muffled senses and the environment. Then began a quarter of an hours head nodding to accompany her droning on while I wobbled and tinkered my empty vessel on my knee. Now when I entertain it's me casa tu casa. And I watch peoples glasses, not for the purposes of monitoring their intake but to make sure they don't run dry. If anyone wants to drink themselves to oblivion round mine that's fine, just don't pee on my carpet, puke down the back of the telly, or get all stupidly aggressive. Alcoholism, while not recommended is not treated judgmentally. It's not my problem. Griselda on other hand seemed to have the best interests of my liver uppermost in her mind. Either that or she was simply a tight swine and inconsiderate.

It was now 12:00, I was morbidly sober and there seemed no polite way to suggest that a guest with an empty glass is an unhappy guest. I could feel the urge to vent my ire rising like a head of steam. Fortunately Griselda yawned a mighty yawn and I used that as my cue to suggest that she had work in the morning and I should be on my way. We parted as cordially as I could and I rushed back home to the comfort of a half bottle of Rioja, then jumped in a taxi over to my friend Jane's.

Ah, well, we live and learn. There won't be a next time.