Going Through Doors (1/3) By Joe Hakim

(1/3), (2/3), (3/3)

My mate from work rings me up and asks me if I want to go out, so I say, Fuck it, why not?

I hate going round town, but I've had more nights out over the last few weeks than I've had in ages. I can feel myself de-evolving into something less, yet something more. Somebody stop me. It may sound like a cop out, but I believe the bad behaviour and conscious effort to get utterly wasted is justified in the context of my current situation. It's just a phase, a cycle, and it's also part ritual, part experiment.

But then again, I would say that, wouldn't I? Something's going on. I can smell it in the air, hear it in the wind; I can see it in the eyes of all the people that walk past me. The city of Hull is changing in quite a major way, just like the world at large.

It incorporates yet also transcends the architectural shift. It's not just about stadiums and sub-aquariums and bus shelters. It incorporates but also transcends the cultural shift. It's not just about schools and artists and asylum seekers. I am also changing, but you don't want to hear about that shit. Put it this way, if I were reading the Tarot, my life would be represented by the card of The Moon right now, and that's all I'm gonna say..

My mate and I agree to meet in Revolution in Old Town, because I can't be bothered traversing the 36 chambers that is the New Town Experience. I don't even own any nun-chukkas, and my soul is not yet pure. Walking into a pub on yer todd on a Friday night is always a torturous experience. It's always best to arrive late just in case your friends are the kind of twonks who are always arrive late themselves. I walk in, nodding at the bouncers as I enter. I don't why I do this. I intend it as some sort of greeting, but their reaction tells me that I look a prick that's trying to look cool and aloof. Walking into a bar on yer todd on a Friday, they're thinking, What a fuckin' twonk..

The place is packed and sweaty. Loud R n' B is playing. People stand around sipping cocktails and expensive bottled beers with slices of lime pushed into the neck. I do the lonely walk of the lost, looking for my mate while trying to maintain a dignified air of grace. I should head straight for the bar and order a drink, but I don't. I don't, because there's nothing sadder than the guy stood at the bar on his own, looking at his watch every five seconds, as if it was about to display the answer to Everything.

I stumble through the throng, grazing past fake tanned blonde goddesses and neo-mulletted metrosexuals. Their scents are inseparable, and I mutter Cheers and Soz mate, as I pass. Eventually I find my mate from work. He's with a few of his mates from Way Back, and the necessary introductions are made. 'This is Sean Tall,' my mate says. We shake hands. 'Why are you called Sean Tall?' I ask. 'Because I'm tall,' he says, and my admittedly shit attempt at humour hits the floor with a deafening thud. I may as well as thrown a lead rhinoceros from a plane and expected it to glide.

We go to The Mint after Revolution. Then we go to Lloyds, and after that we end up in V Bar. By now, the alcohol has worked its magic and we function as a group. The dynamic is in place: Stick a camera on us, baby, we'll perform like chimps on whiz.

Sean Tall and I talk like we've known each other for years. We've all loosened up. I'm numb and dumb, and I don't give a fuck. Alcohol renders subtlety and wit irrelevant. There's no need for either - you're by turns full of beans one minute and then deathly serious the next. Give me raw visceral experiences; I don't care if it hurts. I hate what booze does to people, yet I try and drink as much of it as I can. The pints give way to Becks and Buds, which give way to Jack Daniels and Vodka Red Bulls. I am now incapable of making any kind of decision about anything.

If aliens landed in Queen's Gardens wishing to spread a message of peace, love, universal harmony and understanding, I would offer 'em out, the hippy bastards.. Sean Tall and his buddies want to go to the Waterfront, but my mate from work has other ideas. 'Fuck it,' he says, 'Let's go to Purple Door.'

We all stop and consider it for a minute. In the recesses of my memory I remember the multitude of flyers shoved in our faces as we walked between pubs. I have a really annoying habit of hanging on to flyers and other such night-out detritus. It stems from a teenage obsession with always having back up materials for spliffs and stuff, roach material, y'know. I root through them. 'It's that new lap dancing club,' I say, finding the appropriate one. 'Yeah,' my mate says. 'Look, I'm fucked, I can't be doin' with all that night-club-dancing-chasing-flange rigmarole.'

Continued on www.thisisUll.com...... Next Page (2/3),

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