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Hello lovely readers!
I have something very exciting to share with you today. The following is a guest post, the first ever one featured on Scarphelia (and hopefully not the last) by my elusive, ridiculous and totally-platonic-love-of-my-life best friend, Pistol.
As you returning readers will know, Pistol is a fundamental character in my life, and indeed, in Scarphelia, and I'm so excited for this contribution. Pistol leads an absolutely ridiculous life, and as I mentioned in my Glastonbury post, he is the most prevalent silver influencer on me and my life. So it's awesome for all you to get an insight into the life of the people around me, and not just me ranting on about my life for once!
So here we go Ladies and Gentleman, here is a day in the life of Pistol.
Pistol's Diary - 17th July 2013
Dear Diary,
How's it going old mate, you good? Great.
I know it's been a while since I last wrote, but hey, I'm 22 now. Live fast, die young and all that. I also know there's not too much precedent for sharing you either; but you're an inanimate object and I'm a person, so do one.
Just kidding Diary, I love you to bits, you've got me through far too much, and today's entry just needed to be shared. The story broadly consists of three parts: First, rewind your paper mind to Saturday, the 13th, if you please.
It begins, as these things so often do, at a gay bar in Chinatown.
I was enjoying what I initially expected to be a relaxed afternoon drink with a new friend called – how does Scarphelia put it? - for reasonable reasons because of blah-blah: Chrissy. Conversation was flowing, as was the cider. Muscled-up bartenders and be-vested patrons traded outrageous gossip at the bar.
Chrissy is a very pretty, very cute young blonde lady from the Caribbean. Great banter, cool accent, big brown eyes. Really good fun. I knew all of this before hand, which is why I invited her out for an afternoon drink. The problem, however, was that I'd not really put all these qualities together.
You see, dearest Diary, the last time I saw Chrissy had been through bleary, hungover eyes six days into Glasto and she hadn't had a shower in any of those days. As much as I love and adore Glastonbury – and its denizens – by the end all thoughts of romance are well and truly deadened by the, er, smell.
Sitting in that bar, however, I was struck with the teetering-on-a-cliff feeling that one gets when one finds themselves fancying the pants off another. Shit, Diary, I had a bit of a crush coming on.
Now, old friend, you'll have to oblige me here; you know what I'm like, but these lucky readers I'm sharing with do not. To be frank, I have serious commitment issues. My individuality and independence are two treasures I am loathe to relinquish, and, for whatever reasons – be they ex-girlfriends, mummy-issues, latent (very latent) homosexuality – I attach the idea of a relationship with losing both of these critical possessions.
To that end I avoid situations in which a relationship is on the cards, and I push away anyone that I feel myself getting too close to. I also have a rather depressing habit of automatically assuming anyone I like doesn't return my feelings.
As a result, I've spent the 20-odd months since my last serious relationship bounding merrily between flings with largely foreign-born ladyfolk. The kind in which there's no presumption of a possible relationship beyond the romance of a week's passion in some European or American locale.
So, as I'm sure you'll agree, a crush seems both in and out of place. Yes, she's not from these shores, and yes, she happened to be leaving for-basically-ever the following Thursday. But a real-life crush? Come off it.
Sadly, Chrissy couldn't stick around too long. She had a party to go to, and clearly wasn't interested in taking me with her, despite my very unsubtle prods.
I'll admit this as well: I have absolutely no idea how to deal with actually liking someone. My usually ever-present balls-out charm and cheekiness goes out the window and I become the awkward, desperate wreck we are all terrified we'll become around our little objects of infatuation.
Dejected, I let her go.
Not willing to call it a day – it's about 6.30pm, and this is where the second part of our tale begins – I head to the W Hotel in Leicester Square for a cocktail. With the timing that makes these stories stories as opposed to unconnected experiences, I've barely sat down when one of my nearest and dearest friends calls me.
For reasons and whatever, we'll call her Isabelle. Isabelle is a person of infinite interest to everyone that meets her: beautiful, ludicrously intelligent, hard working, multi-cultural and a little bit dangerous.
She called me up wanting advice on a boy situation; she's also a commitment-o-phobe, relishing in her singlehood and, much like me, her independence. I told her to come straight to the hotel. She umm'd and ahh'd, mentioned some dinner she had to go to (more on that shortly) and came anyway.
We shared a drink (literally, hotel cocktails are not the cheapest of West London tipple), and I agreed to walk her to her dinner up near Russell Square so we could talk on the way. Thoughts were aired and solutions discussed and all will hopefully come good.
Upon arrival at the restaurant, only a few of Isabelle's colleagues – she works at a major investment bank – were there, so I decided to join them for a drink before making my way elsewhere. That quickly turned into dinner, and the next thing I know I'm keeping a dozen international interns topped up with wine.
They seemed appreciative, as one might expect, and invited me to crash a house party they were going to afterwards. Half an hour of jaeger-buying, map-consulting adventure later, we arrive at a block of flats not two streets away and jump into an already lively party.
It's the first major international intern party of the summer, and every guest has just moved to London. They are also all feeling pretty chuffed about completing their first weeks working for this blue-chip internet firm or that top-tier merchant bank.
Suffice to say, the jaeger-bombs were dropping, beer cans cracking and wine bottles popping. There was fudge cake on the kitchen floor and, when I returned the following morning to pick up my forgotten sports bag, a pizza burned to such a color it wouldn't have looked out of place making up one half of an Oreo.
A good party with great friends, old and new.
The final part of the story is simple. Crashed out on the Monday night, I watched a film I've looked forward to for two years: Wreck-it Ralph. For those who haven't seen it, it's an enjoyable, well produced and beautifully created movie with a script that occasionally feels a little forced. It doesn't matter, the only bit that does is the following:
“Turns out I don't need a medal to tell me I'm a good guy, because if that little kid likes me, how bad can I be?”
And that's where my weekend comes together, in the first of the two 'Lessons I've Learned Today' (man, I haven't written that since I was a child – ahhh, dinosaur facts, how I miss thee).
Lessons I've Learned Today:
1. Love is what life is all about. As someone that actively avoids love, this is a bit of a revelation for me. Let me explain:
All that crap in your life – the cars, the job, the clothes, the house, the drug use, booze, parties – it's all just stuff. Beyond what we need to survive its all just pieces in a game, played ostensibly against everyone else, but really you're the only one who cares about your score. It's that medal: it's just some way to compete in life, though life has no such thing as a winner or a loser.
Good things happen and bad things happen, sure.
But when you love someone, and a bad thing happens – your boss is an arsehole, or you smash up your car, or whatever – it fundamentally doesn't matter, because you can say to yourself, at the end of the day 'at least I love so-and-so, at least he/she loves me'. That's a powerful bit of support.
Of course, when love dries and your heart breaks, your friends are there to remind you that they love you too, get crazy drunk, revel in that other crap and generally have a good time. Which brings me to lesson two.
2. Inventing Jaeger-Nukes was nearly as stupid an idea as inventing actual nukes. Grabbing the birthday boy, forcing him to drop jaegermeister shots into beer and down it? I can be such a dick sometimes.
Oh, and that girl, Chrissy? I have no idea if she likes me back or not. I wonder if she might, but it's tough to say. It matters not, really, as I may never see her again. Such is the way life falls sometimes – right people, wrong timing. I'm just happy to know I can actually like someone, because that means one day I might really, truly love someone, and wouldn't that be nice?
Thanks for your time Diary, you're always there for me.
Yours sincerely,
Pistol
