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for the record, Inner Jason, I don't think I want to know either - Diary of a Necromancer
Excuse me, I'm making perfect sense, you're just not keeping up
for the record, Inner Jason, I don't think I want to know either
Inner Trevor and Inner Jason concur.

May have finally got Mum talked round RE deaccessioning some bits of furniture and artwork that have been rendered redundant to our current allotment of space (read: our alleged "studio" has long since started looking like an invitation for a hoarding intervention, so if we're not looking to move again any time soon it's past time to have a hard look at whether various items have outlived their usefulness to us); we shall see how this goes. It's hard, but there does come a point when "if we haven't found a place to put it in the last thirty years then what's the point of shoving it back into storage again?" does begin to get through to her...


I've been overhearing some baffling conversations of late. "Strippers would be tacky and cliche and they'd want to card Trevor," Jason is saying to his mobile.

"Wait, I'm going to this?"

Jason rotates the phone clear of his mouth; "Hell, yeah, when you're hammered you're the entertainment."

"Yeah, thanks for that."

Strictly speaking, to organise the stag-do is more traditionally the groom's brother's job, if David had one who was closer than half a world away, or speaking to him, or more to the point over the age of ten to start with. Circumstance has seen the task delegated to Sandra's side, though Jason himself has been so lost in costing out supplies and scheduling deliveries I've been having to prod him about remembering his actual schoolwork. Really ready to kick back and get wasted, he says.

David's waiting for us outside the club with a couple of his other mates. I think he's telling them how Michael's mother had spent a good chunk of the rehearsal dinner interrogating his parents about his family tree: All Bruce, Bruce, Bruce, Bruce, Bruce, and Ranjit, I make out as we walk up. (It's clear from Jason's accounts that his Nanah's late-found obsession with genealogy was sparked by the arrival of a blond, blue-eyed, buff-skinned grandchild with her son's features. And that there may have been an unkind word or two spoken before she'd set out to settle her mind on the matter.) David breaks off the story to say, "Prize boozer you've found us here, BD."

"Had to think about the lowercase-t," Button-Down says with a nod in my direction. "Bouncer here's a good guy." And a sly smile that suddenly makes him look very much like his brother, making me suspect that this certainty was come by rather more socially than otherwise. I can believe I'm glad not to have been privy to the conversation about my conspicuous lack of credentials: swear to you, man, he is so over twenty-one...

Button-Down's bouncer is something of our sort I've not encountered before, lingering impression in the air of jaguars and feathers. He waves me through with the barest hint of a smile to my flatmate and his brother. Just try not to start nothin'. I nod, well aware it could be his job if I'm challenged later.


It appears Button-Down has booked us for the silly-hats-and-umbrella-drinks sort of piss-up. (Jason immediately appropriates a plastic viking-helmet complete with blonder braids. I've not the heart to tell him it makes him look like a deranged soprano, pointing this out would only go straight to kill da wabbit anyway.) David makes a show of being talked into donning the straw stetson and resumes his tale: "And I'm trying to tell her, Mum, we're from fucking Melbourne, you don't even know if your grandfather's village would be in India or Pakistan now for fuck's sake, but she's all 'that's not the point' and then she went off to cover Sandy in fucking henna tattooes, I think."

This first round of mystery drinks seems to be peppery vodka with a splash of mint schnapps. David downs his gamely and goes back to pontificating on his reasons for emigration. "I just wanted to practise somewhere all the animals weren't trying to kill you. No, you've got, you got the snakes, you've got spiders, fucking platypus is poisonous..."

Defending the honour of antipodean wildlife becomes an excuse to besiege David with off-colour 'little somethings to remind you of home'. (I'm not sure I want to know whose idea it was to make that kangaroo-shaped, Jason murmurs, sounding uncharacteristically shocked.) The last comes as a small bag, from which David extracts the neat package of a blow-up-doll in the form of a sheep. "Now that is just racist on so many levels," Button-Down remarks, rather approvingly.

Of course someone immediately endeavours to inflate the buggering thing.

Several increasingly peculiar cocktails later I'm sipping at a bacon martini and feeling unaccountably good about wearing a fez in public. The groom's quite animated by now, crooning to our new inflatable pet in an exaggeration of his accent that even I can't make sense of. He shoves the sheep into Jason's face for a kiss. One of David's mates, laughing, pulls out a cameraphone to capture the scene.

Points it at me --

Jason makes a clumsy swipe for the device as I recoil, but it's David who wrests it from his friend's grasp; "No evidence," David explains, tapping a finger against his lips. Button-Down takes the mobile from him to flick data away to digital oblivion. "We don' want this all over the fucking internet, yeah?"

Puzzled outrage slowly turns into a nod of hazy comprehension, as drink-lubricated wheels struggle to add up what the man thinks he's just seen into something fitting with most people's notion of rational sense. Right, right, so he, um, isn't over...? Okay, gotcha. And an exaggerated wink at me. Hell, we all did it, kid, not gonna be the one to getcha in trouble.

(I decide not to argue with his mental maths. Better to leave David's associates to think the issue here is the obvious one.)

Eventually we come to that stage of the evening: too pissed for more karaoke, not quite getting on pissed enough to give it up and go home. "Why don't I get any Argonauts?" Jason complains with squinting petulance. The helmet's askew on his dreads, plastic braid hooked over one of the horns. He'd finally done us all a favour and dispatched the inflatable sheep by ripping its throat out with his teeth, which had resulted in a pants little squeak of plastic rather than a bang but got the round of applause anyway.

Button-Down, who's been pacing himself because somebody has to make sure he shows up for the wedding as he says, has already been looking up a taxi service to come and collect two of our party who are nodding off in the corner of the booth. (Neither of them is David, who's holding forth with a surprisingly lucid argument in favour of either socialised medicine or banning spray-cheese, I'm not certain he has a grasp on which anymore.) He looks up from his mobile at Jason's next hiccup to ask me, "You think we need to get him home before he has to explain to Mom why he's got three sous-chefs calling his emergency contact numbers about the shrimp? Or do you still have a couple more brain-cells you want to put down while you've got the chance?"

Giving the correct answer seems to be critically important. I consider the question carefully, and say, "The second thing?" With a shrug Button-Down turns his attention back to ordering the taxi. Jason blurps and tucks his head against my shoulder, knocking the helmet off altogether. Argonaut.

Just as well not to be photogenic, I think.

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ashnistrike From: ashnistrike Date: April 9th, 2012 03:37 pm (UTC) (permalink this entry)
That is both bizarre and surprisingly cute. So, Trevor can get drunk ... does he get hung-over?

And yay for possible de-accessioning. Small steps.

robling_t From: robling_t Date: April 9th, 2012 07:30 pm (UTC) (permalink this entry)
Let's just say it's probably a good thing he's not in the wedding-party... ;)
livejournal From: livejournal Date: May 2nd, 2012 06:59 pm (UTC) (permalink this entry)

story sketch: no evidence

User meeksp referenced to your post from story sketch: no evidence saying: [...] In the latest vignette [...]
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