Bandwidth

I was in Johnny’s office.  His new office, complete with new mini bar and couch.  If I was more like Roger Sterling I would have walked in without knocking, poured myself a drink, sat on the sofa, and stolen one of his cigarettes before he could say a word.  I’d then reply with something witty and vaguely offensive.  Unfortunately I’m nothing like Roger Sterling, so it went more like this: ‘Have a seat Ian.’
‘Haven’t seen you in a while,’ I said, and sat down.
‘I only come in to make token appearances at the office.  Do most of my work from home now.’
‘So you have an office you don’t use and I still have to use reception’s printer when they’re not looking?’
‘Don’t start Ian, you’re in no position.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means no one is reading your stuff any more.  It’s embarrassing.  You know how many people read your last article?  One.  Your editor.  And he read it by accident.’
‘What’s your point?’ I asked.
‘My point is this new format just isn’t working.  We’re going back to the original idea.’
‘Fuck no.’
‘Fuck yes.  Or you won’t be working here any more.  Look I know you’re all about integrity and originality and all that bullshit, but I’m concerned with one thing and one thing only.  Readers.  And you don’t have any, so we’re gonna make a change.’
‘Really?  So what should I write about?’
‘You’ll see,’ was all he said, and told me where to be and what time.  I didn’t argue, because to be honest I had no idea what I was going to write for this article.  As I was leaving he gave me one last cryptic clue.  ‘Look out for a pink hat,’ he said.  Yeah, pink hat, red flag.

I got to the bar at 6pm, dressed a lot nicer than I’m used to.  Which just means I didn’t wear my wallet chain and I buttoned my shirt all the way up.  Everyone else in the place had made much more effort.  I sat at the bar, ordered up a bourbon neat, and kept my eye out for a pink hat.
Seven drinks passed before I saw it.  Not one pink hat, but many.  Around fifteen, actually, perched atop fifteen dolled up dames all wearing little black dresses and shoes that matched the hats.  A fat one out front suddenly pointed at me and they all looked.  I nearly fell off my goddamn stool, but immediately they surrounded me and I had no room to move.
‘Are you Ian?’ shouted the fat one.
‘Unfortunately I am,’ I said, and this seemed to please them.  ‘Who are you?’ I asked.  The fat one said her name was Tanya, and she was one of the bridesmaids.  A fucking hen party.  God damn you Johnny.  Moments later the bride-to-be plonked a pink hat on my head, threw her arms around me and gave me a big kiss.
‘I’m Claire,’ she said, ‘I’m the hen.’  This is easily the most action I’ve had for about six months and I was already half toasted on whiskey so I just smiled.
‘Well baby I guess that makes me the rooster.’  She laughed, obviously impressed by my charm and humour.  Then she leaned in close to whisper in my ear.
‘I prefer cock.’  Lord in heaven I take it back – make sure you keep a spot up there for old Johnny!

They ordered up several jugs of some fiendish cocktail and we got a table.  I usually make a point of not drinking anything that’s pink, but it was free, and I already looked like the group’s gay friend, so I made an exception.

[Editor’s Note: And you were wearing a pink hat.]

I saw Claire trying to find a space to sit, and being the gent that I am I offered her my seat.
‘That’s okay, I’ll just sit on your knee,’ she said, and I wasn’t about to pass her up.
‘I haven’t got a seat either!’ exclaimed Tanya.  Jesus no.  She arsed her way past two of the others and fell back onto my other leg.  After a couple of minutes I said I had to go to the toilet and spent about five minutes in the men’s trying to shake some blood back into my foot.  I got a pint and headed back to the table to find that Tanya had stolen my seat and Claire was now sitting on her knee.  I gave serious thought to sitting on her other leg, but realised Don Draper would never do something like that, so I just stood and lingered near Claire.
‘So what’s the plan for tonight?’ I asked her.
‘Oh we’re gonna go see a movie and then we were supposed to go for dinner but we’re just gonna go straight to the bar to get drunk!’
‘Cool.  What movie are we going to see?’
‘That one with Colin Firth in it.  I love Colin Firth.’
She was talking about A Single Man, and though I really wanted to see it, I really did not want to see it with a hen party.

I’m not quite sure what any of them made of the movie.  I don’t even know why the hell they went to see it.  They were all shitfaced before we even got to the cinema, and although they talked all the way through it the only time they actually made reference to the film was when one of them yelled, ‘Get stuck into him big lad!’  They didn’t even take their goddamn hats off.  I tried to ignore their bad manners and incessant bathroom breaks, and despite it all, managed to enjoy the film.  In fact, it blew me away.  It seems like a cop-out to say it just worked, but that’s about the best I can do.  Sometimes when a movie sucks I know it sucks, but I find it hard to explain why.  In the same way that even though I don’t know shit about music, I know when a guitar is out of tune.  On the flip side sometimes I go to see a movie and just love it, and not only would I have a hard time elucidating why exactly, part of me isn’t even interested in the why.  It’s enough to say that it is fucking great and any sort of analysis is just besides the point.  Well this movie is fucking great.  This is not just some elevator music you hear to drown out the sound of your own boredom.  It is not a flashy, expensive music video from the latest star with as much depth as a piss stain on a lamp post.  This is Clapton on guitar, blowing your mind and all the while just standing there like he’s doing nothing at all.  Like any good movie it grabs you by the balls and doesn’t let go till the credits roll.  Maybe I’m just excited because my balls rarely get more than a light fondling at the movies…

[Editor’s Note: Ian stop talking about your balls.]

…but it does all this without the use of special effects or explosions or dick jokes.  That’s real filmmaking, and it’s becoming all too rare in mainstream movies.  See it while you still can.

After the movie we went to another bar and, starting as they meant to continue, they did a round of shots.  The first casualty of the night was a girl named Chloe, whom I didn’t speak to the whole night until she said to me, very politely, ‘I’m going to be sick.’  I took off my hat and handed it to her and she filled a good third.  She gave me back the sick-filled hat and a couple of her friends carted her off.  In my state I found it very interesting how well the hue of her vomit matched the hat but none of the dames seemed to want to hear about it.  Then Claire told me she didn’t want to get married.
‘Really?  How come?’ I asked.
‘Because you’re cute,’ she said.
‘Well I really don’t think that’s…’
‘Let’s get out of here,’ she said.  I nearly broke my goddamn fingers scrambling my phone out of my pocket.  No reception.  Fuck.
‘I’ll be right back,’ I said, and went outside to phone a taxi. On my way out I passed a fireman heading in to the bar, but since the place wasn’t burning down and I was in a rush, I paid him no heed.  With a taxi booked I dashed back into the bar, knocking pink-hatted women out of my path as I went and wondering why the hell they were playing You Give Love A Bad Name by Bon Jovi.  What I found stopped me dead.  Claire was sitting in a chair at the centre of the dance floor, surrounded by jeering women.  The fireman was now only identifiable by his hat and boots – stripped to his underpants – the rest of his clothing scattered on the floor, and he was grinding his impressive, leopard print crotch in Claire’s face.  She seemed to be rather enjoying herself.  The fireman’s arse was obscenely hairless.  I turned away, went to the bar and ordered a double.

I was well into my second when the performance ended and the fireman simply gathered up his clothes and left.  Don’t Stop Believing by Journey started playing and I knew the end was near, which was lucky because by now I was only standing with assistance from the bar.  Not near enough though.  The broads had been whipped into a frenzy – they were out for cock.  I guess this time they settled for rooster.  When they started chanting ’off, off, off,’ I turned to see what all the fuss was about and realised they were cheering at me.  I started to shake my head and back away but it was all in vain.  One of the bitches tackled me from behind, and when Tanya threw herself into the mix the game was over.  I was thrown to the ground and stripped to my bare arse, infinitely hairier than Fireman Sam’s.  I’m not sure that was what they found so disappointing though.  Fearing that my measurements may anger the mob I kicked my way to my feet, nabbed a pink hat to cover my modesty, and headed for the door.

Needless to say no taxis would pick me up.  The police found me a couple of hours later.  ‘You been drinking son?’ asked the abnormally tall policeman.
‘No I’ve been fucking gardening.  It’s a Saturday night and I’m naked in the street.  Of course I’ve been fucking drinking.’  This apparently wasn’t the smart thing to say, and they booked me.  Johnny ended up having to post my bail, which is only fair if you ask me.

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