Getting out of Hand

Cold tiles. As my eyes adjust all I can remember is ice cold floor tiles. I remember thinking the lounge looks pretty interesting from this angle. The sun slices its way through the kitchen blinds and slowly warms up my toes while I fall back to sleep again. My work college steps over me to get to the kettle and says “Mate – you look terrible in pink and you're running seriously late for work”…Partying hard on a work night is a kak idea.

Its 16:30, the day before, when Scott bursts into my office and exclaims: “Beirfassle bitches! R5 shooters and burger specials, lets doooo this!” Okay okay it wasn’t him…it was me...but still I blame him for how it went down. Bierfassle is an Eastern European style pub venue just on the outskirts of Nottingham Road village near the Dam we were building. It is a festive little place that sold the most amazing Eisbein, Bratwurst and those sorts of eat-a-entire-pig dishes.. Tonight, however, is Wednesday. Wednesday they run beer-burger special where you pay R20 for a burger and a beer. So Ryan, Scott and I pull in there with relatively good intentions when we noticed Gareth and a few of his family members whom were having a get together. A birthday if I remember correctly. So in the light of good friendship (and the fact he was one of my managers) I packed Dodgy Doug back in his box, tied him down securely and threw that bastard little box in a cage deep inside of me.

Gareth is a great guy. Controlled, calculated and structured. He has progressed well in his career, has a wonderful family and is generally well respected in my company as a solid Site Agent. Our interactions have always been pretty basic with the handing over of statistics and trend analysis with the occasional one liner joke. To him, I am just another Joe in the same company trying to get a good name.

I did well. I drank my beer at a reasonable pace, I ate my burger unlike a rabid hobo and I used words like “frick” and “crumbs” instead of the more endowed construction language I am accustomed to. I managed to converse about current affairs and gave my educated view point on global warming. Yes, I too agree that in order for our country to truly find prosperity we must first find prosperity in the values of each other. I kept it up, I kept telling myself: “You’re doing well here Douglas, just take it easy…don’t embarrass anyone”

About three beers in I walked to the bar to get another round where I spotted this pretty little number behind the bar. Now, in the light of good conversation, I start chatting to her about how good the meal was and how blah blah blah whatever. The point is I was innocently chatting away when she put a Tequila in front of me. Shit. Don’t let Dodgy Doug see that. I tried to avert my eyes from the shot of tequila upwards and I got a flash of cleavage and ZACK! It is like a lighting strike through my soul as  I felt I had awakened him. The Dodgy Doug in me started bashing away at the prison doors and chanting with excitement… Flustered I took a step back and asked: “What’s that?”  while she raised her little booty glass up and said “cheers”.  

“Now Douglas, take it easy mate. Just slide this shooter down softly and walk away, ignore him … ignore the prisoner” I said to myself. I extended my right hand out, wrapped my index and thumb around these ice cold goodness and raised it up to hers…

Tequila: If it’s gold and cold then I’m sold. It ran down my throat like a sledgehammer bashing its way through the mental blocks and emotional barriers which released the Kraken. I felt my mood change like when you dip your toes into a hot bath. “Ooh that’s too hot, but it’s awesome…just get in…just get in”

Dodgy Doug purchased 20 shooters and a round of beers. Walked up to the table of cultured and respectable humans and started looking for fellow mates to follow him on a drunken voyage of R5 shooters and mental outbreaks. We smashed the shooters to which Gareth started to get a little uncomfortable. I destroyed my beer in my face and headed off for another round of shooters – BOOM! 50 shooters down and I go the DJ to turn the music up. Gareth, sensing the change of pace, silently packed his family into a protective bubble and hushed them off out the door.

Fueled by cream liquors and hard tack which we gargled down with double brandy and cokes I set off to burn this place down. The DJ started playing sokkie music when I grabbed a random wife from a dinner table and started spinning her about like Havana Nights on steroids. I spun her back to her family 5 minutes later all the while a crowd was starting to form. Ryan was dipping and swinging, Scott was throwing down his cha-cha style sokkie and I introduced the neighborhood to the Harrismiff Two Step.

The bar lady hopped over the counter and grabbed onto me while we spun and stepped like mad. 2 hours later the DJ was covered in beer, the floor was sticky with shooters and this bar lady had all but forgotten that the pub actually has to make a profit. She showed me her evil ass tattoo of a devil type claw ripping at her chest just below her left boob. “I got this because of my ex-boyfriend” she shouted at me to which I responded “Oh – okay because he ripped out your heart?” No. No no. “Because I like to draw blood when I scratch during sex”

If there was ever a sign that it’s time to go home – that is it. Sokkie dancing with randoms is one thing, quite an acceptable thing here in SA, but having a shirt-off conversation with a wild-as-the-night female about how she enjoys a good kitty scratching post in bed is entirely another story. We paid our bill, she threw a bucket of ice cold water over Ryan and we headed home. Scott, in all his wisdom, drove with his lights off because “the cops won’t see me then” as we slowly drifted down the cold and misty road at 02:00am.

So here I am. Dead on the floor in my house with 15 minutes to get ready and head back to work. We drank 225 shooters that night. We turned the most English region of South Africa into a Vrystaat barn party and earned a name for ourselves as “those guys”. But like with a raised eyebrow and a hush undertone.

Hanging onto my desk in my office trying to stop the room from spinning out of control when Gareth walked in : “So…you get a bit out of hand eh?”. Yes, yes he does.