Topanga vs. Billie #

14 November 1998

The numbers were smaller than I’d originally hoped - just Dave, Simon, and Richard had journeyed back up North for a night out in Sheffield. But in retrospect, this wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. We’re all friends from our schooldays, and had quite a bit of catching up to do. Things have changed since we last all got together; we’ve all moved on in life, in more ways than one.

Working life came up in conversation far too much than is healthy for a Saturday night with the lads, and indeed we eventually placed a ban on “talking shop”. But there’s no doubt that we’re all a little too preoccupied with the rat race just now. Nobody seemed overly enthusiastic for their current position, but Simon was definitely the most disillusioned right now. It’s odd to see him so apathetic about things - he was the one who always declared great plans and ambitions, only to end up drifting into a job with the company where he’d done his placement year. I blame it on having found love…

The only convenient bus left the village at 20:22, so we limbered up at my place with some cans and nips of Jack Daniel’s. This made the torturously long and winding journey even more unbearable than ever, as we were all in intense pain stemming from the bladder region. Closed roads, diversions, and recent changes to the route all served to prolong our agony, as if someone up above (or perhaps just as the South Yorkshire Passenger Transport Interchange) were playing with us like puppets. Either way, we all ran like hell from bus to the gent’s. And of course, the first ones were closed for cleaning… It seemed a ludicrous scenario, four grown men running through the bus station at such speeds, creasing up laughing at the failings of their own bodies. Later, Simon declared that when he becomes famous, and a book is written about his life, he wants that scene to be included. Well, this entry will have to do for now, Simon.

It was good to be back out drinking in a city we all knew and felt at home in, where the people ’talked proper’. We chatted about dumb stuff, like trashy American kid’s TV, jokes, women, and cars. And we chatted about serious stuff, like music. We drank plenty of beer (although Simon wussed out at a disgustingly early hour and moved on to Diet Coke), and ate crap kebabs (although Simon wussed out, having apparently turned vegetarian), and ogled cute northern women (although all the good looking ones seemed to know that they were gorgeous, which is such a turn-off…).

The nightclub was great - we played table football, laughed at the South Park decorations on the walls, and danced badly. The DJ played I Am The Resurrection and Here Comes Your Man and Weirdo and some Oasis b-sides, and it felt like I was back at a dodgy student indie night once again, only this time we’d had to pay triple the amount for the same effect.

There was no cheap hour-long walk back to dismal student accommodation, either. This was the real world, where taxi drivers raise their eyebrows at your request for transport back to the countryside, until you offer them £25 up front.

All in all, then, a top night. A real ​release​, the proverbial letting down of hair, a much needed antidote to the nine to five.