Out of my depth around weird strangers

When walking into a pub, it takes approximately 5 seconds to decide what sort of establishment it is.  If fifteen pairs of eyes follow every move you make, while drinks are angrily slammed down, you can be pretty sure that it’s locals only.  Or if there’s music playing at a volume that sounds like Concorde taking off, but there’s not enough room to move – let alone dance – then it’s not going to be a conversational hot-spot.

My previous most-scary pub experience was in Nuneaton, where a chap in the corner was tattooing people.  Drunk people.  I don’t know if you’ve ever been in a proper tattoo parlour, but they probably don’t do it with a fag hanging out of their mouth and a pint on the table.

Last night, I visited a pub in lovely Rugby, a town once famous for inventing some sport or other, but now more notorious for being full of absolutementals.  And they were all congregating in one pub.  The same pub your lucky writer turned up in.

I was actually there to watch a band play – they’re so cool and cutting edge that they don’t even need a website or anything to get people to show up.  Oh, and they were pretty good apart from the bassist who stood there like a lemon.  This is a joke because I know the bassist, and by putting down his talent, I can set him back in his place.

Anyway, after that self-indulgent paragraph that I should really edit out, this pub was weird.  I’m not good around people at the best of times, but when they’ve set themselves out to say “Hey, fuck you, I’m different, what of it”, then my response is to stare at the floor in case they look at me.

This was very much the place to be if you want to be different.  But by being in this pub, you’re not different, you’re the same as everyone else.  If that makes sense.  Quick guide to fitting in:

1)  Get as many tattoos as you possibly can.  Particularly popular are inky sleeves that make it look like you’re wearing a long sleeved t-shirt even when you’re not!  Also, no cliche is too cliche, so by all means go for a rose with a partner’s name on it.  You’ll never regret that.  “Mummy, who is Jason?” “Oh, he was a friend of mine when I was 19.” “Oh.”  And from that point, your children will hate you.  By the way, am I the only person who really struggles to readgothic font tattoos that go down some people’s arms?  It looks like it might say “Can Can”, or maybe “Darren”.  Who knows.

2)  Hair is often overlooked when trying to be awesome, and the traditional colours of black, brown, yellow and ginger are sooo last year.  Dye your hair with food dye, just to get that extra-vivid look.  Red is a great colour.  As is green.  Or purple, for some reason.  Definitely doesn’t make you look like 80s children botherer Grotbags.  Also, the longer the better.  Invest in a couple of cans of hairspray and straighten every strand within an inch of its life.  The only exception to this should be if you’re going bald, in which case shave the lot off.  Bonus points are on offer if you have a tattoo on your head.

3)  Clothes.  Black is the new black, so get your best black out and wear that.  Funeral chic.  If you went to see a band on tour in the 80s (particularly one with inexplicable umlauts) then definitely wear the t-shirt.  Every time you go out. Motorhead played Birmingham in July 1986? Fascinatingly relevant nearly 25 years later.  Throw it away, you smelly bastard.

4)  Make-up.  Heard the expression “less is more”?  They’re wrong.  More is more.  Keep throwing it on, a little more won’t hurt.

5)  Piercings.  If it’s fleshy, it needs a hole in it.  Face piercings always look like spots, so be careful. Ears are the traditional piercing place, but so you’re not mistaken for a middle aged lady, this can be taken as far as you like by having 17 rings in a row running up them both.  Maybe chain them all together so you can be controlled like a metallic Thunderbird.

I’ll wait here while you go and organise all that.  Done it?  Great.  Now take it all off again, because you look like an idiot.

And that’s my problem, really.  When I see someone who looks a bit odd, I can’t help but have a look.  So in a pub full of them, it’s very hard to concentrate on anything.  Like when talking to someone with enormous breasts, it’s forced eye contact the whole time to stop you slipping downwards.  Spent the whole evening becoming acquainted with the layout of the floorboards, in case I got asked the favourite question of weirdy pub-fighters: “Whatchoo lookin’ at?”  It would be very difficult to resist the temptation to reply: “You, you daft cunt.”

It’d all end up very punchy and as you can imagine, I’m as useful as Stephen Hawking in a fight.

I wore jeans and a t-shirt.