Thursday night was a good night on the whole. Finishing work, I had the Friday and Monday booked off originally to prepare for and recover from V Festival (or "The V" as my eldest two have taken to calling it). A couple of weeks ago Tasha was told by the bloke selling her the tickets that they would now be £250 each instead of the £200 - £220 he originally quoted. Tasha, annoyed at the increase, told him she’d let him know and after speaking to those of us who she was buying tickets for, told him to poke it.
Thus, this weekend we were at a loose end. As I sat indoors, watching Twitter scroll by, Chicagos Nightclub in Chelmsford Tweeted that they were holding an A Level results celebration foam party that night. I immediately texted Tasha this news, thinking it a hilarious thought that we could go along ourselves, not thinking for one second that I’d get the reply I did: "ok, we’ll pick you up in an hour."
True to word, but totally against form, Tasha turned up an hour later with her nephew, Jordan, who is a couple of years younger than Tasha at 23, and her recent ex, James, who is 28.
"Are we REALLY going to an A-Level celebratory foam party?" I asked, as I closed the door behind me. Maybe, just maybe I could persuade them that we should go drinking in town instead of going to this Godawful place.
"Get in the car and stop moaning." came the straightforward response.
Twenty minutes later we were sitting in the club. A group of lesbians (and why is it always that when you see lesbians making out, they are always rough looking?) were a few seats behind us as we settled into a small seating section near the bar. We looked around. No foam. Hell, there wasn’t even a party. The lack of bouncers on the front door should have told us that it was going to be a quiet night.
We drank a few drinks, Tasha sticking to soft drinks as she was driving, and three quarters of us proceeded to get merry. I played with my phone, cursing the fact that I could barely get a signal and thinking that I should haver perhaps left the phone in the car as the others had done.
"Cor Dan! Look at them!" said Jordan, indicating a group of women in their mid thirties that had just walked in, "you want to try and grab yourself one of them! They all look like cougars!"
"They may look like cougars to you mate, but they’re the same bloody age as me! And I dare say if they’ve come here on A Level night, they’re not looking to pull a 32 year old, receding bloke but some 18 year old stud."
At around midnight, with the club finally looking half full, foam starting pouring on to the dance floor. In our inebriated state, we weren’t far behind, and within a couple of minutes all four of us were covered head to toe in foam. I lifted my feet and felt my toes squelch in the liquid that was sitting half an inch deep on the dance floor. My jeans were wet and heavy and as I looked around having suddenly lost sight of Jordan, I realised too late that he was crouched behind me. As soon as I noticed him, I felt a hand on my chest as James pushed me backwards and I fell - arse first - into the same concoction that was slopping around in my shoes.
As I lay there, trying desperately to wipe the wet foam from my stinging eyes - an ordeal made all the worse by the sudden appearance of loads of strangers choosing to join in and pile even more foam on top of me - Now I know what it’s like to be a cappucino) - it suddenly occurred to me that the contents of my pockets would now be drenched. Finally heaving myself to my feet, I shuffled off the dance floor, feeling as though I had to all extents and purposes wet myself. I frisked myself quickly and was relieved to find that I hadn’t lost anything, and that the keys, cards and phone were all still there. I then fished my phone out of my pocket and slid it open. It stalled a little before kicking in to life, but it was drenched and fairly unresponsive.
As I remember, my reaction was to swear under my breath and slide the phone back in my pocket to have a look at it later. As Tasha recalls, my reaction was to say quite loudly: "Oh fucking Hell!", before asking Tasha to look at it: "Tasha! Tash! Look at my phone! It’s fucked! Oh no! Tasha look! It’s wet!" It’s fair to say that her recollection is possibly more accurate, unfortunately.
We left the club a while later, wringing our shirts on the pavement as we walked along. Tasha dropped me home before heading back to Southend, and I have to admit that it was a pretty good night all in all, especially as my expectations were quite low.
I got, showered, and went to bed, dismantling my now not-working-at-all phone and leaving it by an open window. When I woke in the morning, I put the phone together again and turned it on…
Brilliant, it always vibrates when I turn it on, maybe it’ll be ok after all!
The screen remained black for a few seconds before lighting up with a Nokia logo. The logo was somewhat blurred at the edges, like it had suffered a stroke, and a few seconds later the phone died. It’s now been five days and it still isn’t working at all.