Four pints have been welcomed and taken their leave, more than I would ordinarily drink in a night, never mind an hour. Jack looks at me cross-eyed over his glass. He’s tried to shift onto lager, but I neglect to tell him one key fact — this place doesn’t sell it. So he’s been forced to stick to the cider, a beverage formulated hundreds of years ago to get you off your box fast and hard, and still doing its job exceptionally well today if Jack is anything to go by.
Although alcohol is a fantastic tongue lubricant, too much and it enters the realm of being a verbal laxative. I slur, “Friends, they’re like comets.”
I can vaguely tell that this is going to be one of those conversations that sound pure genius to the drunks and utter shite to the sober. I’m pretty certain he wants to ask me what the fuck I’m talking about, but he’s so pissed he struggles to effectively verbalise. Therefore I have to explain a little more. “So...you’re the sun,” I point at Jack, confusing him even more, “and like the sun you exert a gravitational pull and, well, that’s what you do to people, Jack. Every now and again someone gets close enough and the strength of your personality, charisma or whatever draws the person to you. Some stay in your orbit for a long time, others drift slowly away, never to be seen again. It’s what I call physics of the soul.”
I sit back, grinning broadly, sure Jack cannot fail to be impressed by my immaculate logic. But he still looks utterly nonplussed.
“Time gentlemen please!” interrupts the landlord. “Drink your drinks up now!”
I vaguely recognise that because our discourse has been interrupted my brilliant analogy will more than likely be lost, either because I will forget when I sober up or (more likely) I will want to forget when I sober up.
On the other hand it’s probably fortunate that we’re being turfed out of the pub, as I’ve reached that dangerous stage when I recognise I’m hammered but the alcohol convinces me that the morning’s sufferings will be worth it. I gulp down the last dregs of my beer then stand up, wobble and grab the back of my chair for support.
“Do you want me to get you a taxi?” I slur.
Jack shakes his head. “Schtay at yours,” he mumbles. He really is fucked.
I can’t be bothered arguing, and actually I’m quite pleased because at this time of night it’ll be at least an hour before a taxi will be arsed to turn up and I really should climb into my pit.
“Sure, no problem,” I say (although not that distinctly).
As we exit I give a jaunty wave to the landlord, and any other soul still inside who cares to accept it, before stepping outside and immediately regretting it. Pubs seem to exist in a different dimension. It’s like stepping across a boundary — inside and outside are utterly different. Inside you’re a star, everything makes sense, everything is fun and life is for living. Outside everything is hard — the air, walking, speaking, life in general. It’s no wonder some people spend their lives in a perpetual haze.
We weave the short distance to my flat, which of course is challenging (being outside the pub), but we make it eventually because I bravely have my arm outstretched in front of us. I’m a strong man leaning into a powerful headwind. I’m knackered with the effort so I have to crawl up the stairs and to my front door. Every now and again I check behind me to see if the faithful Sherpa Jack is still with me on my escapade. Still on my knees it takes three attempts to get the key in the lock and then we’re safe inside again. Jack however suffers a minor carpet burn to the face as he’s been getting mutual support from the door.
“Bedroom, bathroom, kitchen.” I point to each room in turn as Jack levers himself upright.
“Bed, jusht bed,” he pleads.
I point again to where he’s going to sleep. He nods broadly in my direction, says goodnight, manages to get to his feet and then staggers into the guest bedroom. He keeps shambling until his shins hit the bed frame, then folds and lands face down on the bed. I’ll bet he was unconscious before his injured cheek struck the mattress.
Thirty seconds later I’m in bed myself, stripped butt-naked with my alarm set. All thoughts of Claire, Jack and Konstantin’s baffling warning are lost in an alcoholic dream about a mysterious blonde who’s begging to give me a blowjob.