Scuffleboro Nights

04/05/2009

Name that Tune: “Do yourself a favor, don’t come out at night” – Freaks Come Out at Night, Whodini

Movie Quote of the Day: “I know they are neither wholly animal nor wholly man, but an unstable combination of both” – The Island of Dr Moreau

I’m back from the Star Wars Cantina Bar versus The Island of Doctor Moreau convention that is my old hometown of Scarborough!

Alarming genetic throwback types aplenty in town on Saturday afternoon, fortunately not of the biologically related to me variety, but no less disturbing to the nerves! Dear me! Flouride in the water? Forget it – what the heck was going on in the old Boro on Saturday? I only hope that most of the Living Dead shambling around from pasty shop to cheap shoe shop to 50p & £1 shops, vacant of eye & lurching of gait were oft-comers & grockles. The friends & rellies I still have who live in the town don’t look & act like that but Christ! it was like stumbling onto the set of a George A Romero remake and that was just Saturday afternoon, don’t get me started on the evening. I don’t even know where to begin, but if you book a cab to take you into town and a local taxi driver replies “How about Hull?” when asked to recommend somewhere good to start the evening then you may well get idea. Bman had nipped out earlier to buy the compulsory bottle of Buckfast from Costcutters, but the flimsy bag broke and his prize Bucky fell through the hole and smashed all over the floor so that just about set the tone for the rest of the evening…lol.

Fancy dress, as ever, was des rigeur for the mostly under-age masses which once again prompted the loose idea that Brew & I should one time go out as Lou & Andy from Little Britain complete with wheelchair. Who would be who though? It’d have to be a coin toss for the sit-down I reckon 🙂

Brawling in the street was of course on the menu (not me & Brew I hasten to add) but a boy dressed as a 118-118 man but lacking in moustache and wig, so actually just a kid in a vest & shorts with 118-118 scrawled on the front in marker pen, throwing punches at Mr Incredible & pushing him in the road while his mate dressed as one of those Bernie Clifton style costumes that makes it look like you are riding a horse or emu or whatever tried to play the peacemaker in the middle – chuck a random squawking female into the fray who may or may not have been in fancy dress (it was hard to tell) and there you have the almost textbook start to the St Nicholas Street run of bars that all seem to blend into one and were, in bygones days, all part of Marshall House – that elephants graveyard of yesteryear where the decrepits & the senile spent hour upon hour supping piss-weak tea & sucking on custard creams. Happy Days!

No less entertaining than a fancy dress fracas was the presence of several “Night Marshalls”, persons employed by the council to patrol the streets at night breaking up fights, tending to the chunderbirds & making sure sozzled females got into cabs without their undersmiles on display. I don’t know how much they get paid for this but frankly I’m guessing it’s not enough! Also present were volunteer “Street Angels” doling out complimentary flip flops to the unwise who chose to remove their killer heels, to protect them no doubt from the highly likely event of broken glass in the soles of the feet or dogshite between the toes. Nice!

I did take my camera out but was not quick enough off the mark to capture the feel of the evening or TV gold moments such as our friend being mistaken for Chris Moyles and posing for photos with a gaggle of birds on a hen do, or the girl celebrating her 21st complete with giant number 2 and 1 balloons which had twisted round and looked like a giant hot pink ‘12’ floating above her head, or the bitch fight in the loo at Blue Lounge when a group of young pals turned on each other like alcopop-fuelled hyenas giving me a ring side seat & the joy of hearing the words; “It’s all about you, you, you, innit you bitch, we all have to jump to your tune tonight….just cos its your fucking birthday!” as she ragged at her pals hair and tried to scratch her eyes out. 10 minutes later they were all back at the bar hugging one another & getting in another round of asbestos & cherryade cocktails. Class!

Quids Inn had reopened in the site of the old Yates Bar and anyone familiar with this concept will remember the old £1 entry coin in the turnstile and then once inside all drinks were a pound – quids in right? Geddit? Yeah? It was the first Saturday it was open so we figured it would be busy but at 1030pm we were the only ones in there apart from the 4 bored looking bar girls working the Shooters Bar and a tribe of clueless looking staff at the main bar which was impressively stocked with an eye watering display of never before seen generic spirits with names like;- Wodka. Bricardi. Jin. Jock Dumiels etc. No chance at all of a decent dash of Bombay Sapphire in there but I spotted a dusty looking bottle of Gordons so opted for that and reminded Bman that on no account was he to order me a house ‘Jin’ with the option of supersizing for a triple for an extra 50p. It became apparent after the first round that the quids in part of Quids Inn ended at the turnstile because a G&T & a bottle of beer came to about £4.75 which kind of defeats the object of the theme of the bar really. No wonder it was dead.
To try and coax in more trade they busted out the big guns and from some hidden room came 4 scrawny looking girls in their undies and hot pink hairy boots who proceeded to climb a ladder behind the bar up to a mezzanine level (which actually looked more like a shelf built above the bar) and the gyrating round poles commenced. Spearmint Rhino it was not!
It did begin to fill up and get busier though and was a people-watchers paradise:- Stags dressed in full and impressive 70’s gear & afros; an entire force of policewomen; the day-glo posse; the under age; the old enough to know betters & a handsome young chap in a sharp suit who looked like he was drinking a pint of Tizer (possibly as an antidote to the 46 shots of absinthe he looked as though he had already consumed), who tried to stroke me up then promptly fell off the step and crashed into the crowd onto the dance floor like a falling tree. Timber!

As per, we ended up at the Casino, which in my opinion looked as though it has gone a bit down hill of late, they had a karaoke session going on for goodness sake – what’s that about in a Casino? We decided to call it a night at about 0330, got a pizza, jumped in a cab & were home for 0400 counting our blessings that we didn’t have to do it every weekend on the hunt for love.

I think by far my favorite bar of the night was Storm on York Place and the worst was Red Square which despite selling a good range of cocktails did have far too many ingredients in unmarked plastic bottles for my taste and needed to dim the lights and go easy on the cheap air freshener/disinfectant – the stench of which hit you as soon as you walked in.
I had a particularly unpleasant experience whilst weaving through the mostly teenage crowd of not only feeling 20 years older than everyone but also of having to squeeze through a forest of slightly clammy, mostly tattooed & prematurely flabby under-arm-swing – urgh! One tequila slammer and a B52 & I was outta there!

I woke up this morning feeling surprisingly chipper & much less self conscious of having a bit of a muffin top and an extra chin & being 3 away from 40 because I had seen much worse casualties of the battlefield the night before who didn’t seem at all bothered by their own physical imperfections, indeed seemed quite happy to draw as much attention to them as possible. Don’t hide it – spray glitter on it & be proud!

Ciao for now anyway, I need a good nights kip – got an old friend coming tomorrow who is laden down with old photos and letters from our teenage years – so I suspect I won’t be drying out and detoxifying for at least another couple of days yet.

Xx

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