Seven days in May: Chig’s big, bad birthday week

Now, where was I? Ah yes, last Thursday (2nd) I was going on about the opening of BaaBar that night. Well, I didn't realise then that it would be the second of seven consecutive boozy nights out, culminating in my Bank Holiday Monday birthday and ending on Tuesday night (7th) with Kylie at the NEC. It was actually nice to stay in last night! Let’s rewind a little and catch up...

Day 1: Wednesday 1st: My second chance to see local band Crazy Face gigging. They’re the band with the lead singer, Simon, who I know, and who I first saw live for the first time back on 23 March. Tonight, they’re up the road at the Jug Of Ale in Moseley, a pub easily within walking distance, and thank goodness for that. There’s a door charge tonight. One whole pound. And pints of Carlsberg are also a mere pound. Consequently, Gingerprince and I feel we have to sink as many as possible to take advantage of this generous offer, and have about five pints. CoolBritannia and TinyChica are there too, although CoolBritannia admits that he’s not really into the music. Such loyalty though, to come to a gig, just to accompany his friend. Crazy Face are excellent, I feel. Simon seems a little less self-assured than the first time I saw them; he’s not talking to the audience as much tonight, but his voice sounds better. Later I discover he actually has a cold, so goodness knows how he managed to sound better! I bumped into Caroline, someone I haven’t met since I left work 18 months ago, and it turns out she has known one of the Crazy Face guitarists for nine years. Small world….
After Crazy Face finish their support slot, Gingerprince suggests we go downstairs. The main band have appeared, with a singer wearing what looks like a bedspread, and they don’t sound too good. I stand my ground (for whatever pointless reason), determined to get my pound’s worth of entertainment. “Let’s give them the benefit of the doubt,” I suggest. Their second song starts. It’s bloody awful. The room is slowly clearing, and I’ve changed my mind. We go downstairs.

Now, on the Saturday before this, TinyChica and I had been sitting in the Green Room, discussing how we had both copped off the night before. (NB. Gay man’s definition of copping off = taking someone home and having sex. Straight woman’s definition of copping off = snogging.) By fortunate coincidence, TinyChica's dalliance has turned up in the pub tonight, so we can all have a good gander at him. Before I get a proper look, TinyChica tells me that he’s told her before that gay men often find him attractive. ‘Huh!’ I think, I think WE'LL be the judge of that, thank you very much. There are three of us there who could have an opinion on the subject. Now where is he? Oh, bloody hell, he’s very attractive indeed! I’m trying not to stare TOO much, but he’s seen us trying to 'stare discreetly' at him down the other end of the bar, and it’s hopeless; I keep meeting his eye, and after five pints I’m finding this quite funny, and mildly arousing. He's with a skinhead, who CoolBritannia has apparently flirted with on the door of one of the venues on Hurst Street, where the skinhead works. So is he gay? Is he a gay friend of the apparently straight bloke who snogged TinyChica? It’s all getting a bit confusing. Anyway, there’s no resolution to this particular story, because we soon got thrown out of the pub, and I staggered home, but it set the scene for the rest of the week. Some time in the next hour or so, my mobile received a text from an unidentified number, saying ‘V. pissed methinks’. I still don’t know who sent it, but I did give Caroline my number, so perhaps it was her?
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