This time, I'm plundering the Life Writing module of my degree. As the name suggests, life writing is the art of turning human existence into stories, with all the problems that result. When I wrote this piece (back in about last November/December, I think), the focus of the module was on drawing literature from our own lives: Untitled, in true me style, is a cautionary tale on why this is a really shit idea.
And yes, this really happened to me. Kinda.
Untitled
He doesn’t think about this at the time, but Brits spend half their lives waiting for buses. Though in his case, he’s already sat in one: he’s just waiting for it to get going. But he finds the wait just as irritating. He’s got places to go, people to meet, things to do.
He’s a writer. That’s what he does.
Regardless of what happens tonight, he’ll use any and every event as story fuel. It’s not that he can’t help it: it’s something that he wants to do. He doesn’t normally regard nights like this as mere story fuel but a story is very much what he intends to be the lasting impact of tonight.
With luck, this night is going to be a big one. Him, his mates from his floor and some random others are all heading to a local club, and they intend to drink and dance the night away. Though maybe he won’t be drinking that much, because he wants to remember enough of tonight to write about later.
He’s a writer. That’s what he does.
There’s anything up to fifty students on this bus, but there’s only six that he’ll be partying with. Jon is the student beer monster to end all student beer monsters: he’d seem a bit intimidating if you didn’t know him, but beneath the mouthy exterior beats the heart of a true legend. Kaz is Jon’s semi-girlfriend, and whilst she might be a bit of a slob, this doesn’t stop her from being an all-round nice lass. Sean…well, if you imagine an 18-year-old Ron Weasley from Essex, then you’ve got him down pat.
These are the only ones from his floor: the other three are friends of friends. He hasn’t met Sarah, the glamorous blonde, before tonight, but sadly he’ll remember almost nothing about her afterwards. He’s seen Susan around a few times before: a bird of some class. Very attractive, and very likable. Cherys he’s meeting for only the second time, but he’s already gaining the impression that, beneath the bubbly and buxom blonde exterior, there lurks one of the most fiercely intelligent minds he’s ever had the pleasure to encounter.
This isn’t even a third of the people he knows here, but these are the ones he’s tagging along with.
He’s been wanting to write about a night of this type for a while. Tonight looks like his chance.
He’s a writer. That’s what he does.
The bus driver is still taking his time about setting off, and Mr Writer here still doesn’t have a clue why. Getting restless, Jon steps outside and has a puss up against the wooden wall opposite. In his great maturity, the driver closes the door behind him. It might not be the cleverest joke, but everyone laughs, Mr Writer here included. Jon gets let back in only a minute or so later. The bus sets off shortly after, which gets a good cheer from all onboard.
He’s a writer. That’s what he does.
Sadly for him, he now can’t remember nearly all of what happened on that bus journey. The only memory is him overhearing Cherys say something to Sarah.
“All my life, people have been saying I’m stupid.”
Or words to that effect, anyway.
He’d ever expected Cherys to have a backstory like that. She doesn’t look like someone others would dislike. You don’t only get people that interesting in stories…though she’ll probably make good story material all by herself.
He’s a writer. That’s what he does.
After a few minutes, the bus reaches its destination: the Fez Club, in the centre of Putney in south-west
Remembering what happened the last time he bowled up a club without ID – absolutely nothing, and in the worst possible sense – he’s made sure that he’s toting a passport this time. The bouncers wave him through the door, and he heads down the wood-lined stairs to the room at the bottom. He grudgingly hands over the four quid entrance fee – when you’re a student, money is worth its weight in gold – and goes through another set of doors into the Fez proper.
There’s a corridor going off to the left, packed with people, with two wide archways at the far end. The one on the left leads to the bar, the one on the right leads to the dancefloor. It’s at this point that all the wood surfaces, tropical plants and rough plaster walls explain themselves: the
Now he just needs to wait for his six companions to do stuff worth writing about.
He’s a writer. That’s what he does.
Of course, this is where it all starts to go wrong.
The moment the septet sets foot in the dancefloor room, Mr Writer here is attacked by a crippling wave of paranoia. You wouldn’t know it by looking at him, but he’s suddenly feeling more nervous than he’s ever felt in his life. Whether it’s the dancefloor packed tighter than sardines, the vanilla “bump ‘n’ grind” R‘n’B the DJ’s spinning or something else altogether, he suddenly couldn’t feel any more out of place if he tried. If he puts even so much as one toe on that dancefloor, he’ll look even more like a tit than anyone else ever could. Even dad-dancing is above him, and that’s just when he’s in an outgoing mood.
He’s a writer. That’s what he does.
Whilst everyone gets down ‘n’ dirty on the dancefloor, he just sits tight at the side of the room, feeling like a moron. He hasn’t just come here to get story material: he’s also come here to have fun. This is his first time in the
He’s a writer. That’s what he does.
After a few minutes of this, he follows Jon and Sean over to the bar. He doesn’t buy anything, but he stays with them whilst they down their own drinks. With luck, it’ll take his mind off things.
Jon points on the general direction of the dancefloor. “By the end of the night, we’re gonna get you a shag.”
“Good luck, mate.”
Jon was evidently just providing a drunken gesture, because he doesn’t pursue the matter further. He and Sean go back to the dancefloor, whilst Mr Writer here goes back to the wall.
He’s a writer. That’s what he does.
It’s another few minutes before Cherys comes up and tries to drag him onto the dancefloor. He very adamantly refuses: a trifle foolish, under the circumstances, but this paranoia won’t let him do anything else.
Cherys cottons on quick. “Who cares what other people think?” she asks him. Later, he learns that she’s pissed out of her skull by this point: come to think of it, he was the only one who was still sober when they all got on the damn bus.
“I care!” Loud music notwithstanding, he practically screams the words. He doesn’t want to get angry with her – she’s too nice for that – but he can still feel the blood rising.
“You think any of them will care?” Cherys gestures over to the revellers on the dancefloor. “They won’t care what you look like!”
He doesn’t say anything. He can’t find the words. Regardless of what Cherys seems to think, they will care. They won’t say it, but they’ll care. He’s never enjoyed having people think he’s an idiot.
But right here and now, he doesn’t know how to say this. “Face it, it’s not going to happen.” is what he stupidly settles for instead.
Cherys knows that he’s right. “Fine. Be boring, then.”
“Can do.”
Cherys goes back to the dancefloor. He doesn’t go anywhere. He just continues to stand there and watch.
He’s a writer. That’s what he does.
He just wants to leave, but he can’t. He still needs his story.
He’s utterly appalled with himself the moment this thought leaves his brain. But this doesn’t stop it from being true. He hasn’t just come here to have fun: he’s also come here to get story material. At the moment, he’s without either.
Well, he’s got some story material, but not the kind he wants. His big plan for tonight, he wanted a story about family and togetherness and all that balls. What he’s finding instead is a story about alienation. That’s not the kind of thing he wants to write.
He’s a writer. That’s what he does.
Eventually, he decides to check his watch. It’s not long after midnight, which means he’s been here about three quarters of an hour. That went faster than he thought. If he leaves now, at least it won’t be so bad.
And he might as well face facts: he’s not getting the story he wants anyway. Not now.
He heads over to Jon, who’s happily slow-dancing away with Kaz. He taps Jon on the shoulder and says he’s leaving. Jon nods. At least someone knows where he is.
As heads out of the
He can walk back to the uni from here. He’s done it before: it’ll take him about half an hour, and he knows the way. He’s too angry with himself to care about how stupid this is, walking through Greater London on his own in the middle of the night.
So he sets off on the walk home. Though he won’t realize the full extent of it until later, the obvious truth is just starting to occur to him. That if he hadn’t been so keen on chronicling events, maybe he’d have been able to be a part of them. Or maybe he just wouldn’t have cared so much about not being part of them. It’s too late now, either way. He’s still made himself look like an anti-social headcase.
He’s a wri- ah, fuck it. It’s not like you don’t know the drill by now.
2 comments:
Ok, again I'm left with that "The world doesn't care, and neither do i" feeling.
By the way, remember in Dwr Budr 2, you had, as part of the prologue, a quote that went something like, "Buy a house. Buy a sofa. Buy a huge f***ing television."? I've just seen that on someone else's blog. I was just curious where that came from. I think you have my email. I'll email you about it anyway.
Matt H
I thought this clever. I, too, have tried to force stories out of events but it doesn't work because you're too busy thinking how you're going to do it and you expect things to play out like they do in your head. And you always wind up looking like an anti-social headcase. :P
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