Life's Unanswered Questions?

Last time I had a house party, my parents kindly donated a bottle of Vodka. Said bottle wasn’t just the standard Smirnoff or any of its equally commercial friends. Far from it. This vodka was something really special that had been lurking away with the bottle of Cherry Brandy and some other brown tar-like liqueur in my parent’s alcohol cabinet since... well, a hell of a long time ago!

“Did you know this vodka is from the U.S.S.R?” one of my friends asked.

“Well that must mean its good stuff then,” I reply. The U.S.S.R is Russia, right? I know I teach English but I did get an A* at GCSE geography. Evidently I didn’t take History, otherwise I would have known that the U.S.S.R was dissolved in 1991, which would have meant that in 2010, when I moved into my new flat, this Vodka was upwards of 20 years old. Added to the fact that it was a gift to my dad when he went to Russia (which he hasn’t done since I’ve been alive!) we were probably in for a rough night. After unscrewing the top and practically getting drunk of the alcohol vapour emitted, I decided that this, along with most other vodkas, was not my friend and steered the bottle in the direction of my drink hardened friends. After sinking the majority of the bottle between three of them, by the end of the night it wasn’t their friend either. Even the mention of the dreaded tipple can cause hangover like symptoms; no joke!

Fast forward a year, and after months of trials and tribulations, I was eventually settled in my new abode and ready to warm it in true binge-drinking fashion. Following the customary trip to my parent’s alcohol cabinet, where I managed to unearth a much more palatable bottle of Jack Daniels, and a full, but slightly dubious looking bottle of a Bourbon called Canadian Club whose date of manufacture pre-dated last year’s vodka, I was ready to welcome the revellers. Among the guests were various friends and acquaintances including the colleague who dances like Vanilla Ice and her equally awesome side-kick, the blogging supremo, and most worryingly, the previously mentioned, bad influence and instigator of mischief extraordinaire, Hayley. On spotting the Canadian Club, she remarked with glee that it combined her two most favourite things in life, Canadian’s and whiskey, before setting about devouring the bottle with a little (a lot!) of help from yours truly. If it carried on like this, it was going to be a very messy night!

In order to safeguard my cream carpets from my growing drunkenness, and especially after making such a song-and-dance about everyone bringing non-staining drinks (after all I am now a homeowner, thus take full responsibility for vomit on the carpets, whether mine or otherwise) I decided it was time to steer the gang in the direction of a local cocktail bar, for water of course.

I started to realise that I was on the slippery slope to complete inebriation after trying to limbo under the barrier at the multi-story car park (why we were even in a multi-story car park still remains a complete mystery to me) followed by trying to pole dance on a lamp post.

Just to be on the safe side I carried on drinking as I was pretty sure that I wasn’t entertaining enough already and threw in a few dares just to add to the excitement. After completing many thrusts and singing to randomers, I turned the tables onto someone else.

“Your dare,” I slurred to my colleague, “is to sing ‘You’re just too good to be true’ to that man over there,” as I point vaguely in the direction of someone I’m hoping was male. Surprisingly, not only did she understand what I had asked, she actually did it! If I could do that Ali G style finger clicking and could pull off a fake Reggae accent, now would be the time that I would say Respect! Nonetheless, after harassing the majority of the cliental, it was necessary to make a well timed exit as this was a place that I actually quite like, so didn’t want to run the risk of being ejected... as that would seriously narrow the amount of places that I was able to visit with a shred of dignity intact.

Now for those of you who know Birmingham, there are very few choices to head on to when you are in that state of drunkenness (Broad Street excepted of course, as in fact I was probably way too sober to be heading in that direction!)  apart from the alcohol dependent and wastrel’s Mecca that is Snobs. To give you an idea of the type of place this is, the last time that I had been there (at the end of a date nonetheless... nothing says romance like Snobs!) I witnessed a drunken guy who was passed out on the pavement wet himself. Yet I still went back for more and shamefully, embarrassingly, and probably any other adverbs to describe my drunken actions, this was the second time that I had been to Snobs in the space of a week and if I was not so wasted at this stage I would have been thinking please don’t recognise me, but instead focused on please let me not seem too drunk to be refused entry!

And this leads me on to how I decided on the title for this blog; Life’s unanswered questions, (and don’t worry, I’m not about to get all deep and philosophical and break the habit of a lifetime!)

But I will now pose the following questions:

After discovering the Facebook status... Jack is lost somewhere is Snobs, a particularly sympathetic friend pointed out that it is laid out in a circular pattern and so forming the first question of How the fuck can you get lost in a circle? Well it’s not exactly an unanswerable question if you subtract the near lethal quantities of alcohol from the equation, but it’s still a bit of a doozy.

The second question: What exactly did happen in those three (yes three) hours that I spent at Snobs until four in the morning? Which the leads me onto my third, and most puzzling question.

What. The. Hell. Were we all doing that night to mean that the hardened 6 who remained until the bitter end, woke up the next morning (admittedly horribly hung-over/ still drunk in my case) with our necks completely locked?!

Answers on a post card please.

This time I make a fool of myself to a catchy soundtrack!

Now sports aren’t really my forte at the best of times. It would be fair to say that I was PE teachers’ worst nightmare; I was that kid who just couldn’t be bothered. Unlike those potential athletes or aspiring international rugby stars that treated each PE session like it was the Olympics, I would rather stand at the side keeping well away from any physical action. And let’s face it, we all know rugby is just a way of making it more acceptable for the academically challenged jocks to beat up the self confessed geeks like me without it being called bullying, but rather dubbed as character building as that’s much more PC. Much to my teacher’s disgust, my standard response to why I wasn’t joining in on all hormonally fuelled rough and tumble was that I couldn’t be good at everything and you’ll just have to accept that. Oh to be a teenager and have suitably sarcastic and well informed answer to any possible elicitation. (Well it must be better than admitting that I seriously suck ass at pretty much any sport). All the years of this in my teens and yet I’m still infuriated by the little know-it-alls who test my patience with their snippy teenage wisdom. I guess there is such a thing as karma.

Since leaving school my relationship with sport has become considerably less strained and on a fine day I might even be seen heading to the gym for a session on the treadmill (although not the cross-trainer mind; that thing just gets faster and faster until there is absolutely no other option but to fall off it. A health hazard if I ever did see one). Personally I don’t think the whole sports malarkey is at all aided by the fact that I have sporadic control of my limbs at the best of times. So imagine my trepidation when an email arrived to my work account announcing staff Zumba. Rather than admitting that I wasn’t actually even sure what Zumba was, and that fact that it sounded a bit like zoom (which as we all know is a rather energetic verb) suggests it might involve quite a lot of hard graft!

Are the more perceptive of you starting to sense a new opportunity to stage my idiocy? You are?! Excellent; a gold star for you!

Anyway, after conveniently forgetting my change of clothes on the first opportunity, one of my colleagues and fellow Zumba recruits, kindly reminded me with the following imperative:

Zumba- 2moro! That is all!

At this point I’m starting to realise that I might have got myself into something that I was soon to regret. Time for good old Google to once again, put my worries to rest.

Do men do Zumba?

Google’s always right so I’m bound to find answers there, right? I found particular reassurance in the following:

At my Zumba class there are no men, apart from those who (not so) sneakily come to ogle over the women there.

Hmmmm...

So as I’m sneaking out of the men’s toilet, hoping and praying not to be seen on my way to the dance studio, I bump into one of my senior colleagues. Masking my humiliation behind the facade of being in a rush, I try to get away with the standard friendly hi and a head nod that usually suffices. But not this time... oh no, I wasn’t going to escape without a quizzing.

"Are you off to...Zumba?” he asked with the tell tale raise of an eyebrow.

What do I say without appearing completely moronic?

I lost a bet?

I was tricked into it?

Zumba? I thought I was going to cage fighting?

I settled for I’m proving a point before adding this little gem; Taking one for the boys and there might have even been a little action to go with it too. What was I thinking? I have never said anything like that in my life! His knowing nod made any possible verbal response void and with that I scuttled off. 

I’m procrastinating aren’t I? Much like I was on the way to said Zumba class. But then again, you’ve probably only read this far in the hope that I’ll make a fool of myself at some stage: Fear not dear reader it will all be worthwhile.

Much as I expected I was the only guy at the class, which I’m pretty sure is not a positive indicator for what is to follow.

Boy was I right.

Luckily for me I was joined by a couple of my rebellious colleagues who accompanied me in making a bee line for the back of the class in order to hide our inability (or make a quick exit should the sudden need arise) together. Then, to the pumping beats of a quasi-reggae/salsa/latino soundtrack and the delighted yelps and whoops of the instructor, what would become an hour of boogying, shaking, shimmying, weaving and probably most scarily... thrusting, began and I quickly realised that this would definitely not be an activity I would excel at! What began as a relatively well structured aerobic inspired work-out, evolved to something more akin to the moves I bust out on a Friday nights at one of Birmingham’s more seedy venues after my fifth Jager bomb.

“I’m just freestyling now!” said one of my colleagues as they gaily boogied past me in the sort of ethereal haze that Vanilla Ice or one of his eighties cronies would be proud of and that looked like my kind of fun!

Now I’m one of those people that doesn’t really do failure (even though I did fail my driving test 6 times, which proves my next point) but if I do, I do it in a dramatic fashion. So as the movements are getting more risqué and the tempo is starting to speed up I decide that failing spectacularly was the only way I was going to get through the next 40 minutes. So that was what I did; I failed.

I failed at the clapping and shaking.

I failed at the shimmying big time!

I failed at the whole co-ordination thing ‘cus I just can’t move my arms and legs in time; its actually impossible!

I very definitely failed at the whole ass wobbling, gyrating Beyonce-esq style movements (but that’s quite a relief if I’m honest as there aren’t many/any guys who can really pull that off!)

(I probably didn’t fail on the thrusting, but from the comments afterwards about the level of gusto that I put into this, maybe failure would have been a better option!)

But you know what I learnt from all of this, (well apart from the fact a nationwide ban should be enforced on me ever attending a Zumba class again) is that sometimes, much as it pains me to say this, it’s ok to fail. Just make sure you fail in epic proportions and you’ll be fine!