Bev. Birds. Banter

intended to be a spoof of lad culture, with narrative between a boy friend and a girlfriend. More of an introductory chapter really

1.      Bev. Birds. Banter.

I walk up the driveway to Pete’s big f**k off house, crate of bud under my arm. The guns are looking f*****g good in this Jack Wills polo. It’s nice and tight so the fanny can see these massive pecks. I stop and check myself out in the window of Pete’s battered old Ford Ka, and I look f*****g nice. My hair is sculpted to perfection, it looks effortless, as though I didn’t just spend one hour on it. There is not a single pore on my sculpted face and my cheeks are covered with the perfect designer stubble. Nobody could possibly resist.

Bev. Birds. Banter

Pete’s dusty drive is f*****g up my new Yeezy’s. These were very expensive and to see them dusty irritates me to no end.

Pete is a good lad though, this is his third house party and the last two were legendary. I wouldn’t normally hang out with the loser if it wasn’t for two factors: firstly, he was the first person to not only pass his driving test but also to have a car. So until Seb passed his test back in February I was reliant on him for lifts. And secondly because he invites f*****g everyone to his parties. Ever the social climber that he is.

 Aberdeen fresher’s is next week so this will be the last of our parties as a school year. From here, people will move on, meet new people and head towards new horizons. This means tonight will be a celebration of what we had together and what awaits us. In short, and in a far less poofy fashion, it should be f*****g legendary.

I pass through his gate into his back garden where the party is taking place. It’s only eight but the party is already pretty packed. I immediately start to scout the talent. Kitty Baker, who I’ve been pumping on and off all summer, is standing with a big group of her fit b***h pals. A particular stand out is Kylie Robertson, a bit of a skanky schemie, but we’ve all had a chug to her Instagram now and again. The rest of the fanny present is second tier at best, I can leave them for the beta males of this party.

The lads are sat nearby the hot girls, engrossed in a drinking game. The fat, ugly mob is standing by the hedges, in the shadows where they belong. Their triple chins illuminated by their phones. I’d never f**k a fatty. Never. The Ching-Chong who hangs out with them is alright though.

The lion has finished observing his watering hole for now. I approach the boys. They are playing fuzzy duck. Bev. Birds. Banter.

“Alright, lads!” I say to the group.

“Alright, chief!” They reply in unison. The fact that they still recognise me as their captain, their leader, despite the rugby season being long over brings me a great satisfaction. I park my arse down next to Chris. Chris is blonde and about six-one, just like me, with fantastic biceps but untoned abs. We gym together regularly and I can press more than him, which makes me feel rightly superior. My hair is also better than his.

Bev. Birds. Banter

Over the course of the game we plan tonight’s entertainment; we are going to get some little roaster to drink a foaming pint of piss. Not just anyone’s urine, but Malcolm the Prop Forward’s. Why? Because it smells like a chemistry lab accident.

The shortlist of candidates for this are as follows:

1.)    Our glorious autistic leader, Neil Miller. A f*****g weirdo who ended up as our Head Boy, god only knows how.

2.)    Luke Grant, a faggy wee brown noser, who is always leeching on to us. He will do literally anything we till him to do if he thinks it will make him like or respect him.

3.)    Mark Johnson, local retard, just functional enough to be allowed to go to parties.

 

Someone brings out the bottle of tequila and some glasses and we start to do shots, on top of this I’m six beers deep and feeling nice and pissed. Seb has not arrived yet but when he does he better have some coke.

 

Bev. Birds. Banter

I survey the scene. Already there are a few lightweight burnouts who are clearly wasted. Neil Miller is looking spasticated so we might have our winner. I spy Kitty on her own mixing herself a drink. I brush my shirt and run my fingers through my hair; feeling how soft the conditioner has really made it. I excuse myself from the lads and saunter over to her, catching her eye, amongst others.

Oh f**k.

Oh f**k.

Oh f**k, he’s coming over. He’s actually swaggering across the dancefloor in a fashion that exposes the Neanderthal that he truly is. I try not to meet his eye, focusing on the Bacardi and coke but it can’t be helped. His air of bravado repulses me as he swaggers over. I struggle a smile which ends up toothless and half hearted.

“Hello there, gorgeous.” Spills inevitably out of his half drunken mouth.

“Hi.” I reply, almost totally devoid of emotion, flat and robotic like a SatNav voiceover.

“Haven’t chatted to you in a wee while.” The hoppy syllables pour out of his mouth.

“No, I suppose not.” I have been ignoring his messages, texts and calls for several days now. This brings a small period of conversational dead air.

“How are you enjoying the party?” He asks.

“It’s ok.” I answer.

“Aye, just needs to liven up a wee bit,” He looks me up and down in a butcher shop fashion and follows with “And by the way you look absolutely beautiful tonight.”

I cringe, I’m wearing a nice-ish top, black skinny jeans and kitten heels. He’s trying to be charming, make me feel special, but I know how he really talks about me.

“Thanks.” A reply finally spurts out.

Another awkward silence falls over us which s****y EDM fills. The nauseating mix of deodorant and aftershave radiates out from him, he smells like a boy’s changing room. Does he honestly believe those adverts on the telly? That if he douses himself in these products, every woman will think he is suave and sophisticated and definitely want to sleep with him? Come to think of it it would surprise me if he didn’t.

No words come from either of us, I can hear the cogs whirring in his head, trying to find something to say. But I’ve already found something.

“You’re full of s**t, you know that.” Feeling a tide of vitriol course through me.

“Excuse me?” he sputters, taken aback.

“I hear the way you talk about me, behind my back, to your boyfriends.” Adrenaline pulling me along. “I’m just some “fit B***h” who you “Casually Bang.””

His mouth flies open in disbelief.

“I can’t believe you would ever do that to me. I thought you were better than that.”

“I…I am.” trembles his bottom lip.

“No, no you’re not. You’re just not. You lied to me. You’re an immature little boy,”

“Kitty, I’m sorry, I’ll never do it again” he blurts out between sobs, oh god, he’s crying.

“Yes, yes you will, I know what you’re like. Goodbye Jake. Oh and by the way, you are nowhere near as handsome as you think you are and you’re definitely no sex god.”

I leave the slobbering wreck on his own, storm out of the party and head home.

Author's Note

Had this idea for a while, any criticism would be nice.

Reviews

[johnnywallman]

think you write well, loved the opening paragraph, interested to know where you are going with this, is it the start of a novel? if nothing else its a good commentary of yoof culture or at least i see it that way as a miserable old git. I would leave it as a short story but take it a bit further. Liked it tho.