#oneaday Day 743: Out

It occurs to me that I haven’t “been out” for ages. Not literally; I left the house both yesterday and today and will probably do so again tomorrow. I’m referring to what people mean when they say they are “going out” for an evening — that is, hitting the pubs and clubs of the local area, and probably drinking heavily along the way. Motivations for “going out” may vary — meeting with friends, going on the pull or simply just for something to do — but the results are usually pretty similar.

The vast majority of my “going out” when I was younger (read: during the university years) was conducted in conjunction with my good friend and Agricola demon Sam. We had quite a few memorable nights over the years, but they often tended to follow a fairly similar pattern.

Sam and I, and possibly a few others, would decide that we wanted to go out for some reason. In fact, there wasn’t always an explicit reason — “Let’s go to Lennon’s” was usually reason enough.

Regardless of whether there was a reason or not, we would get ourselves into whatever we considered our glad-rags to be, and head out for our target — usually either the aforementioned Lennon’s or Kaos, two grotty little student-heavy nightclubs within easy staggering distance of most of our homes, and two places with a predilection for cheap drinks that were usually 1) a knockoff of a recognisable drink and 2) out of date. Lennon’s, in particular, proudly sported a fridge which noted “contents may be out of date” and the happily sold you said contents for £1 a bottle.

The reason we went to these places rather than somewhere bigger and (arguably) better? Stubbornness, partly, but also none of us were particularly hardcore clubbers. None of us were into doing the drugs (to my knowledge, anyway) and none of us were bigtime drinkers. Both Lennon’s and Kaos allowed you the authentic clubland experience of being in a dark, smelly room with music too loud to talk to your friends over, but were both small enough that you never lost track of your friends for very long. Lennon’s, in particular, was roughly the size of a large garden shed and entirely contained in a single room, so if you had reached the stage where you couldn’t find your friends in there, you had definitely had too much.

Part of the appeal of “going out” for some is going on the pull, hoping to score some sweet lovin’ from some trophy guy/girl that you’d had your eye on all night. Or, as the evening went on, anyone who looked vaguely in your direction or accidentally made eye contact.

Suffice to say, our attempts in that regard were usually confined to standing on the perimeter of the dance floor having picked a “target” that we decided we quite liked, and then staring at them off and on for most of the night. When closing time rolled around, we would then leave with the lingering sense of regret that we should have probably actually gone and tried to talk to them, or at the very least danced near them in the vain hope they might pay attention.

I can only remember a single successful instance of “pulling” in my entire life. I was at Kaos, this time with the university theatre group, as it was our wont to invade Kaos every Monday night and enjoy their plentiful stocks of Newcastle Brown Ale and vodka-fake Red Bull. On this particular occasion, I had had a fair amount of vodka and fake Red Bull, and was consequently of the opinion that my dancing was The Shit.

“You ever tried ecstasy, mate?” yelled some Neanderthal I didn’t know in my ear as I wildly flailed around the dance floor.

“No,” I replied honestly. Almost immediately afterwards I was grabbed by a nearby blonde girl (named Beki, as it turned out) who proceeded to snog my face off.

“Yeah,” said the guy to me after Beki had allowed me to come up for air. “You’d love ecstasy.”

Quite.

So why don’t I “go out” any more? Several reasons, really: I don’t really drink any more; I live a long way from anyone who might want to “go out”; but most of all, I’m not sure I see the point any more.

That said, I can think of two people offhand who may well be reading this for whom I would happily make an exception and subject myself to the cavernous depths of The Dungeon or the sticky floor of Lennon’s. But that’s more because I haven’t seen them for ages and miss them rather than any particular massive desire to go clubbing. I certainly don’t feel the same pressure I once did that I perhaps “should” go out, head off somewhere by myself and have a miserable experience of the type outlined here.

Perhaps I’m just an antisocial old bastard. We can probably all agree on that.

#oneaday, Day 286: Murder and Mystery

Tonight’s activity was an entertaining affair–a murder mystery dinner party in celebration of my good friend Sam’s 30th birthday. (Sam, incidentally, does not know anyone called either “Don Woods” or “Pook” and would like to make that fact abundantly clear.)

For those who have never attended a murder mystery party, it’s an enormously fun opportunity for a bunch of people to get together, eat, drink, dress up in silly costumes and then make twats of themselves with each other. Ostensibly, it’s a game where everyone is supposed to “role-play” their characters and through careful questioning, determine who the murderer was.

In practice, it’s an excuse for people to talk in silly accents, overact and generally lark about. It’s a pretty far cry from what tabletop enthusiasts would call “traditional” role-playing, but in actuality it’s pretty close to what your common or garden D&D group gets up to. Only probably with more comedy French accents and less in the way of dice-rolling. Which is good. Because the dice-rolling bit of role-playing is often seen as the “geeky bit”, whereas with a bit of encouragement, most people can enjoy a bit of impromptu improvisatory theatre, especially when their confidence glands have been appropriately lubricated via the judicious application of alcohol.

Tonight was no exception to the above rules. A diverse group of people attended and hammed it up through three acts of questioning, accusations and gradually-escalating amounts of backstabbing, espionage and clandestine affairs. As the evening went on, people gradually grew much more comfortable with the whole experience and started ad-libbing somewhat. Mostly, it has to be said, with some fairly filthy comments. But that added to the fun. Particularly as the amount of wine consumed throughout the evening meant that everyone’s accents suffered somewhat.

So if you’re looking for an opportunity to get some people together, dress up in silly costumes and engage in a spot of light role-playing (of the non-filthy kind) then a murder mystery party is the way to go. The set we played–The Brie, The Bullet and The Black Cat–was structured pretty well, with handouts and helpful prompts for all characters, meaning that no-one was left flagging and having to come up with questions all by themselves. It worked well, even though only one amongst our number managed to correctly identify the murderers by the end of the whole experience.

It was a good laugh, though, and surely that’s the point of any game when it comes down to it.

The group are now settling down to a game of Eat Poop You Cat! which I discovered the other day can be referred to as Broken Telephone in polite circles. Wine has been consumed, so I anticipate that the sentences and drawings produced throughout the course of the game will be somewhat spectacular.

It’s up and out early tomorrow morning for a run, with a change of scenery for once as I’m in Winchester instead of back home. I hope it’s not cold.

#oneaday, Day 272: Person LF Person

People are funny things, aren’t they? You’d think there would be infinite possibilities, infinite combinations out there. But the fact that it’s possible through psychological testing to boil people down (not literally) into various categories based on whether they are introverted or extroverted, compassionate or twattish and, I don’t know, whether they like Chinese food or not, suggests otherwise.

And so it is that you come across people who are Your Kind of People. People who are Your Kind of People can appear at any time in the wild. For introverts like me, it’s sometimes difficult to find them as finding new people inevitably involves putting yourself out there a bit and actually talking to strangers. Scariness. Unless you have an appropriate context in which to start talking to new people. Perhaps you’ve been exchanging messages online. Perhaps someone you know is introducing you. Perhaps you’re at a social occasion for some mutual friends. Perhaps it’s a new job. Perhaps you get the idea by now and I can stop giving examples.

It’s sometimes difficult to define what Your Kind of People are. Is it to do with interests? Personality? Physical appearance? Whether or not they stink of cabbage? Well, in my experience, the answer to this is “yes”. All of those things are contributing factors in the complex equation that determines whether someone else is Your Kind of Person or not. And someone being Your Kind of Person doesn’t necessarily mean that you’re attracted to them, although this can and does happen. In which case you end up dating someone who is Your Kind of Person, which is pretty much an ideal situation to be in for everyone involved.

I am very pleased that over the last few days I have met several people who are My Kind of People. The reasons for each of them being My Kind of People are varied, but they’re all people that I feel very comfortable and happy hanging out with. People who I feel understand me, or if they don’t understand me now may well be in a position to say “Yes, I understand Pete perfectly” at some point in the future. People with whom I share some interests. People that I enjoy the company of. People who are, in short, pretty damn awesome.

It’s always a pleasant feeling when this happens. You don’t get a positive Moodlet in The Sims 3 for making a new friend for no reason, after all. Finding new people to spend time with is always good, particularly if they are people that you don’t feel you have to compromise the person you are in order to be with. People that you can be comfortable with and let out the side of yourself that sometimes stays hidden in polite society. (And I’m not talking about the side of you that might like to wear nappies or do inappropriate things involving poo or pieces of ginger. That side is probably best to keep hidden until you’re absolutely sure that Your Kind of People share said interests.)

So, I’m having a very lovely weekend when all’s said and done. I hope you are too.

#oneaday, Day 145: Fear is for the Weak

I had an ambitious and experimental post planned, but time got the better of me so it can wait until tomorrow.

Instead, I am on my way out to my buddy Kalam’s birthday bash. There will be drinking involved.

I don’t normally go out this late. I usually overthink things and then end up not doing anything at all. But tonight, I thought, fuck it. There are times when it’s OK to just do, not think. So my intention for tonight is to follow that philosophy. Hesitation is for the weak. The contented man doesn’t regret missed opportunities. And other proverbs that I’ve just made up.

Tonight, my intention is to try and go more with gut instinct. Hesitation and lack of confidence holds mr back to a ridiculous degree and the only way to fix that is to do something about it for yourself.

I have no idea if it will actually work. But this, at least, is the intention. There will doubtless be Twitter updates throughout the evening depending on whether things go swimmingly or are a disastrous failure that make me never want to show my face in public again.

But I’ve got to try, at least. So here goes.