It was bitingly cold, almost cruel, as I walked into Delilaz last night.
At home I was bored, listless. I tried the TV, I tried Scotch. I tried porn. I tried TV, porn and scotch. Nothing worked.
So I went to Delilaz.
I walked in and sat down, as usual. I ordered a Hot Beaver sandwich (beef and liver - delicious) and a lager 'n' vodka 'n' cava 'n' port. Nothing out of the ordinary. I chatted to Candiqua and Yvonnia and Praline. I had a brief wrestle with Big Jasmine. I got up off the floor. I pretended my knee didn't really, really hurt. All the usual stuff. I had a couple of dances with Stephenette and Alanora and Derekke. Then I had a couple with Cutella. Then a couple more with Cutella. Then a couple more with Cutella. Then a bottle of claret, a pint of lager, a pint of gin 'n' tonic, a couple of something else, a few other things and a couple of dances with Cutella.
It was all as it should be.
Then I heard a song.
Just a song.
But without a warning, without any suspicion that something was wrong, I felt sobered and scared. The lights that had been both mysterious and detailed, like good lingerie, seemed sinister, malevolent. The words in the song were coming right at me, talking to me. I couldn't get away from them. I felt stupid, suddenly. A fool. I felt coldly alone. I felt tears well.
The words went
Sometimes it seems that the going is just too rough
And things go wrong no matter what I do
Now and then it seems that life is just too much
But you've got the love I need to see me through
When food is gone you are my daily meal
When friends are gone I know my saviour's love is real.
Through the music I sensed something, heard something, something horrific, a voice, horribly truthful.
"You're a dick. You're a talentless dick. You don't know what you're doing. How did you get here, you dick? You're nobody, you're nothing, you're a joke. You're a dick, you dick. You're just alone."
I looked around and was struck by the sheer waste, the pointlessness of this place - the time and money and energy I'd spunked into it with my desperate trousers around my desperate ankles. Why hadn't I found someone, found someone with the love to see me through? Why hadn't I found my saviour? Tears, thick as melted chocolate, flooded me.
The song ended.
I had fallen to my knees and was slumped against the vulgar red plush cushions of a booth. Cutella was standing over me.
'Are you alright, Dave? Dave?'
I picked myself up.
'Fucking right I am - bad pint, innit! Now get your tits out and let's have a dance - the works, if you know what I mean!'
Sometimes, you've just got to get through those bad pints, haven't you? Those bad pints come from time to time. And you've just got to get through them. That's what I think, anyway. And it works for me. Mostly.
Why? Because I am the client.