Thrills In The Village
Weary eyes and miscued laughs give way to the wrench of empty stomachs, Lays finally spent up. They’re a troupe of strays minus a master, wandering about ‘our’ newly settled streets with all the will of jellyfish on tar. But really, their thinking is one of all-breathing male angst, charging about in search of a fresh buzz — “when’s one of yous gonna jump in that canal? Swear that’s a given round here.” Noisy chatter is thrown out for the sake of one-smoked-too-many — it’s just what’s done, isn’t it? We were all having a perfectly fine time of it before he thought it time to get bloody well stuck in, ey boys? There’s always an acting fucking tour manager, so to speak, for these lads and their laughs. “Where to next then, gents? Cafe Smokey, or we can go stare at tits for another twenty.” And so the madame drags his folly round, in a trance, aimless wanderers under the spell of Chipsy King et al.
I, like so many of us before, have been there, too — 18 and let loose to trapse, ogle and banter without missing a beat. Except we could barely smoke, rather mere imitators that had to go on this merry dance hoping we’d stay in time. So green that the shells of our mistakes and anxieties didn’t particularly matter. But now, it’s like living for a thousand temptations with no real lust for any of it. An older head on those evergreen shoulders, seeking a path of least resistance that will, it’s hoped, satisfy a clamour for accomplishment — a buzz.
Saturday night in the Red Light, ducking and diving between yer Dereks, yer Thompas, Caveys and Niges to find a cash machine that might well snatch your hand as well as your 10 euro 50 charge if you weren’t paying complete attention. These boys have got it made, less daytime operators than they are nighttime weasels with kids at home — chomping the bit on a split gram of Colombian sharp, shifting a ten tonne paira bollocks through a doorway whose tenant is less than keen to do deal, lest bring down the best man’s speech in months to come.
Thrills in the village. Dads smoking out their 15 year old daughters and all too can’t be arsed missus’. Deutsche leds dressed up like Scousers, parked up by a bin with baccy down their front. It’s a mock up of where, when and how to misstep on a man’s existence — how futile it so usually is in this state, yet still tinged with colour and near aggravation. An approach as old as this red port — teetering on crooked beams and worn facades, yer man and his pals on the half 5 to North Shields first thing.
