Hobos and Miscreants Line Up Here
Once, while a touch intoxicated, I let my guard down and kissed a dude with a moustache. Not the “permitted” type of moustache either, for example, that which is attached to a cute goatee or a nicely trimmed beard, no, I'm talking about a little bum-fluff, downey, trainee moustache, the sort that screams, “I aspire to grow a mullet, wear plaid and belch hilariously when I grow up!”.
I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, “Just how high were you at this point in time, Guv’ner?” and you could be forgiven for thinking it. However, I had merely partaken of a few stiff ciders and I was 18 and this volatile combination of these two combustible elements made for a very dangerous evening. Thinking back, this is probably why having a legal drinking age of 18 is probably not a wise idea.
Even while I was dancing with Mr. Suave, I knew it was wrong. I just didn’t much care. I was inebriated and happy and I was looking sassy, thanks for asking. I was at an indie show and the band had been great, the drinks were cheap and the world was my oyster. And given that analogy, when you consider I could’ve gone for the pearl, I instead decided it was wise to snog some moustachioed undesireable who looked like Joe Dirt.
This was the first of many undesirable men I would kiss over the years, for varying reasons, because I was an equal opportunities kisser and thought I was doing my part for humanity. I mean for some of those men, who would kiss them if not me? See? Call it the good deed of my lifetime. A public service if you will. (I didn’t “public service” any of them though, don’t go thinking it.)
Mr. Moustache though was a strange oversight. Kissing him was like kissing a particularly hyperactive slug – one that had digested a bunch of crack causing it to wander around my mouth aimlessly banging off my teeth. And he sort of grunted while he was kissing me which creeped me out because I kept envisioning opening my eyes and noticing that I was actually kissing a pig.
After about two minutes of this I claimed I needed another drink and while he went to fetch it, I ran off and hid in the cloakroom where two of my girlfriends staged an intervention that went something like, “You are coming home with us RIGHT NOW, miss, you will NEVER drink again and you will gargle mouthwash until your lips burn off.” And next thing I know I’m in the back of the car, still drunk, singing Pogues songs and going “Did you see that guy? Did you see him? He was NASTY! Did you see that guy?”
Yes indeed they saw. And proceeded to remind me of him for the next 10 damn years.
A few days later Joe Dirt called my house. Yes, I’d actually given him my phone number. My real phone number! I guess I was drunker than I thought. Luckily, I was sober by then and managed to get out of the whole thing. This was also the first of many times that would happen over the years – in particular there seemed to be a slew of hippies and other people no one else wanted anything to do with, that I’d encounter in clubs, feel sorry for, dance with, let follow me around all night then a few days later they’d call and I’d have to instruct my sister to say I had gone on a very important mission to Timbuktu, possibly never to return. Thankfully I didn't kiss many of them. But still.
I don't know what was wrong with me. I'm quite picky nowadays about whose tongue I allow to sweep my molars.
