The Night of the Drug-Dealing Tramps
A little bit of background on this. So, why does this blog exist? What is the point of spending time on this?
There are two answers to that – firstly, we wanted to share some of the compellingly surreal things that happen (like a pissed up version of Dave Gorman or Danny Wallace) when you get utterly twatted. And secondly, this is the result of a *great idea*. I’ll explain about the *great idea* side to this another time. But at this stage let me give you an example of the stupidly surreal things that happen when the beer has flowed freely.
It is the story of the evening on the steps of St Martin’s in the Fields. It is the story of Night of the Drug Dealing Tramps.
Now, Beverage was unusually drunk. Don’t get me wrong, he is often wasted – but he is a seasoned drinker who can hold his own against the very best; in fact, a police man friend of ours once noted that Beverage was able to out drink even a policeman, which was rare, as normally those who could out drink him were members of the “street community”. However this night his level of inebriation had reached unusual heights. We later discovered the reason for this – the measures of vodka he was drinking was actually 35cl rather than the 25cl… but at the time our focus lay elsewhere. Because Beverage had decided he was going to go back to his ex-girlfriend.
Now this would be a really stupid idea. In fact, it is difficult to explain just how stupid an idea this would be. However, once someone has drunk their body weight in vodka and red bull, they really don’t listen to reason. But given I had drunk my body weight in Fosters I had forgotten this golden rule and thought with my clever reasoning and banter (or drunken, slurred rants) I could convince him otherwise. And what better venue than the steps of St Martin’s in the Fields?
I suppose we should have noted the large number of homeless persons also using the steps as a temporary refuge, but as I have already hinted at, we were wasted. So we sat there, merrily talking away whilst the people around us wondered which park bench they were going to sleep on that night.
And two people wander up to us. A short, fat man and a tall, lanky guy who we later realised was supposed to be the heavy – the man who was supposed to intimidate us. Just a quick note for any Drug Dealing Tramps who might be reading this – a strong man should look, well, strong. Not like someone who has contracted some sort of wasting disease. This strong man looked as if a strong gust of wind would have seen him flying across Trafalgar Square and down Parliament Street.
The short fat guy opened our conversation by saying he knew somewhere where we could sleep for the night, and then pointed down a dark alley. Which prompted derisive laughs from both of us and a comment along the lines of “do you really think we are going to walk down a dark alley with two people we have just met? How wasted do you think we are?!”
Then a crucial question crossed my mind. And being half pissed, I did not hesitate in asking it.
“I’m sorry, do we look like tramps or something?”
The short fat man didn’t reply, but you could tell from the look on his face that the answer was a resounding “yes”. And in retrospect, who could blame him? I hadn’t shaved all weekend, we were both dressed badly and we were slumped on the steps of a London landmark at midnight on a Sunday evening. Frankly if I had seen us I would have looked the other way and crossed the road.
Instead the short fat man came up with another question.
“So, do you want something to keep you awake?”
Before I could indignantly protest that I hadn’t just spent a small fortune on eight pints of sleep-inducing lager just to go and buy something else to keep me awake, Beverage intervened.
“How d’ya mean?”
Beverage backed up the urgency of his question with an aggressively pointing finger and a slurred delivery.
The short, fat man looked a little confused but decided to plough on anyway.
“You know, something to keep you awake. Speed or something.”
Great. Having realised that he could not convince us to wander down a dark alley so he could mug us, the short fat man had fallen back on Plan B. He was going to fleece us by selling us (no doubt poor quality) drugs.
Now I was stumped at this, but fortunately Beverage was on form. Again, with the pointing finger and the drawled delivery, he posited a cogent question.
“How d’ya know we aren’t undercover police?”
With masterful understatement, the short, fat man said
“You don’t really look like undercover police.”
“Ah-hah! But what do undercover police look like?” explained Beverage, with the iron certainty in his statement that only the utterly wasted can achieve. “Surely if we were properly undercover you wouldn’t be able to tell?”
A valid point, I think you will agree. A valid point made even more remarkable when you consider the levels of inebriation Beverage had achieved. I was stunned at his logic, not least because I was compellingly arseholed as well. Had I not been quite so wasted then I might have been able to see what the short, fat man was getting at - because whilst Beverage’s point may have been valid, it would have been equally valid to point out that had we been undercover policemen that we probably wouldn’t be quite so drunk…
But at this stage the short, fat man realised he was fighting a losing battle with us. And so he glanced at his emaciated strong man for some support – but that support was not forthcoming. In fact, the *strong* man was looking around nervously. Like he wanted to anywhere other than where he was. And like he wanted to run away as quickly as possible.
Never one to pass up on an opponent’s weakness, Beverage seized the moment.
“What are you looking at him for? Is he supposed to be your tough guy or something? He’s fucking useless. The worst strong man in the world. Ever!”
At this stage the strong man started to back away. Realising this, the short, fat man decided it was time to give up.
“You have a good evening, guys…”
And for the rest of our time sat on the steps we felt smug, having out-witted the Drug-Dealing Tramps.
This sort of thing happens to us a lot. And from now on it will be shared with the world. Partly for the therapeutic elements, and partly for shits and giggles…
There are two answers to that – firstly, we wanted to share some of the compellingly surreal things that happen (like a pissed up version of Dave Gorman or Danny Wallace) when you get utterly twatted. And secondly, this is the result of a *great idea*. I’ll explain about the *great idea* side to this another time. But at this stage let me give you an example of the stupidly surreal things that happen when the beer has flowed freely.
It is the story of the evening on the steps of St Martin’s in the Fields. It is the story of Night of the Drug Dealing Tramps.
Now, Beverage was unusually drunk. Don’t get me wrong, he is often wasted – but he is a seasoned drinker who can hold his own against the very best; in fact, a police man friend of ours once noted that Beverage was able to out drink even a policeman, which was rare, as normally those who could out drink him were members of the “street community”. However this night his level of inebriation had reached unusual heights. We later discovered the reason for this – the measures of vodka he was drinking was actually 35cl rather than the 25cl… but at the time our focus lay elsewhere. Because Beverage had decided he was going to go back to his ex-girlfriend.
Now this would be a really stupid idea. In fact, it is difficult to explain just how stupid an idea this would be. However, once someone has drunk their body weight in vodka and red bull, they really don’t listen to reason. But given I had drunk my body weight in Fosters I had forgotten this golden rule and thought with my clever reasoning and banter (or drunken, slurred rants) I could convince him otherwise. And what better venue than the steps of St Martin’s in the Fields?
I suppose we should have noted the large number of homeless persons also using the steps as a temporary refuge, but as I have already hinted at, we were wasted. So we sat there, merrily talking away whilst the people around us wondered which park bench they were going to sleep on that night.
And two people wander up to us. A short, fat man and a tall, lanky guy who we later realised was supposed to be the heavy – the man who was supposed to intimidate us. Just a quick note for any Drug Dealing Tramps who might be reading this – a strong man should look, well, strong. Not like someone who has contracted some sort of wasting disease. This strong man looked as if a strong gust of wind would have seen him flying across Trafalgar Square and down Parliament Street.
The short fat guy opened our conversation by saying he knew somewhere where we could sleep for the night, and then pointed down a dark alley. Which prompted derisive laughs from both of us and a comment along the lines of “do you really think we are going to walk down a dark alley with two people we have just met? How wasted do you think we are?!”
Then a crucial question crossed my mind. And being half pissed, I did not hesitate in asking it.
“I’m sorry, do we look like tramps or something?”
The short fat man didn’t reply, but you could tell from the look on his face that the answer was a resounding “yes”. And in retrospect, who could blame him? I hadn’t shaved all weekend, we were both dressed badly and we were slumped on the steps of a London landmark at midnight on a Sunday evening. Frankly if I had seen us I would have looked the other way and crossed the road.
Instead the short fat man came up with another question.
“So, do you want something to keep you awake?”
Before I could indignantly protest that I hadn’t just spent a small fortune on eight pints of sleep-inducing lager just to go and buy something else to keep me awake, Beverage intervened.
“How d’ya mean?”
Beverage backed up the urgency of his question with an aggressively pointing finger and a slurred delivery.
The short, fat man looked a little confused but decided to plough on anyway.
“You know, something to keep you awake. Speed or something.”
Great. Having realised that he could not convince us to wander down a dark alley so he could mug us, the short fat man had fallen back on Plan B. He was going to fleece us by selling us (no doubt poor quality) drugs.
Now I was stumped at this, but fortunately Beverage was on form. Again, with the pointing finger and the drawled delivery, he posited a cogent question.
“How d’ya know we aren’t undercover police?”
With masterful understatement, the short, fat man said
“You don’t really look like undercover police.”
“Ah-hah! But what do undercover police look like?” explained Beverage, with the iron certainty in his statement that only the utterly wasted can achieve. “Surely if we were properly undercover you wouldn’t be able to tell?”
A valid point, I think you will agree. A valid point made even more remarkable when you consider the levels of inebriation Beverage had achieved. I was stunned at his logic, not least because I was compellingly arseholed as well. Had I not been quite so wasted then I might have been able to see what the short, fat man was getting at - because whilst Beverage’s point may have been valid, it would have been equally valid to point out that had we been undercover policemen that we probably wouldn’t be quite so drunk…
But at this stage the short, fat man realised he was fighting a losing battle with us. And so he glanced at his emaciated strong man for some support – but that support was not forthcoming. In fact, the *strong* man was looking around nervously. Like he wanted to anywhere other than where he was. And like he wanted to run away as quickly as possible.
Never one to pass up on an opponent’s weakness, Beverage seized the moment.
“What are you looking at him for? Is he supposed to be your tough guy or something? He’s fucking useless. The worst strong man in the world. Ever!”
At this stage the strong man started to back away. Realising this, the short, fat man decided it was time to give up.
“You have a good evening, guys…”
And for the rest of our time sat on the steps we felt smug, having out-witted the Drug-Dealing Tramps.
This sort of thing happens to us a lot. And from now on it will be shared with the world. Partly for the therapeutic elements, and partly for shits and giggles…
posted by The Nameless Libertarian at 7:16 AM
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