I hadn’t seen Neil for about eight years, and decided to drop in on him in Leeds, where he threatened/promised to take me to the fleshpots, whatever that meant. I hitched from Nottingham which gave me a great chance to share an hour in a lorry with a very animated Muslim, who had been born again into his true faith after his “mini-hajj” as he called it. He ranted at me for a while, with the fervour of a true proselyte, and then put on a tape explaining about jinns and how one would get a whole lot of earth put around your neck if you stole any earth from anyone in your mortal life. He would occasionally stop the tape and explain certain things, while trusting our fate to a greater power as he took his eyes of the road and oncoming traffic.
He was very kind, and explained that the Dewsbury mosque had open sessions for non-believers like myself on a Thursday. Time didn’t permit a visit there, so I headed into Leeds with my headcold and a burning desire to rid the streets of all of the festival revellers, lest I be mistaken for one myself. I went and hid in a pub, and had a pint of Tetley’s. I finally met Neil at about 5:30pm, feeling a little unwell, and unsure how I would cope with the deluge of drink to follow, given my headache, sore throat and general malaise. I hit upon an idea and switched to strong continental lager and never looked back.
It’s reassuring when you meet a long-estranged acquaintance that rapport and shared values still exist. Neil and I caught up on a fair amount of lost history, and before we knew it things were back to old times, as we staggered into an indie club. The photographic evidence shows a tell-tale ice bucket, which hints at champagne. Neil’s face shows the evidence of the fight he had with the bouncer, a very large gentleman who didn’t seem to support our notion that careening from side to side of the dancefloor with bare-chests and our t-shirts on our heads was in fact the best way for all of the club goers to enjoy the evening. Neil didn’t seem to agree that being told to reclothe ourselves for a second time was made more persuasive when the bouncer lifted him up by his neck. There were fisticuffs and threats, and my backpack was gently returned to me as we exitted the discotheque – apparenly barred for our dirty dancing.
The taxi driver who was resposible for delivering us to Neil’s flat refused my kind offer to come in and have a Lemsip – I thought this might redress my kharmic debt for the many free lifts I have been blessed with from innocent members of the British public. The morning started with groans – Neil about his face and jaw, me because I’d missed my bus to Edinburgh and didn’t feel very clever.
I feel much better now after spending seven hours on the bus I eventually did catch, bouncing around tiny roads trying to avoid being sick – a feat not matched or helped by the barfing toddler on the seat next to mine. Still, it took my mind off my head cold.