Sleb

Sure isn't it himself?

Minor media scrum + Belfast = Tribal Leader; in this case Big Aul Ian P is doing the pontificating.

Singles

An old friend from Rathcoole MSNed me last week, suggesting we go to Bar Seven's Singles Night on Thursday night. Now I've never had the pleasure of visiting the Odyssey, and a night out with "a 21 - something crowd skilled at being as effortlessly cool as the surroundings"1 seemed a more attractive option than crying and wanking in front of ITV1 all night. Again. Who knows, I may even meet my future life partner. Maybe it was the excitement of this prospect that brought on the nausea as I entered the pavilion.

Deborah, manager for the evening explained the rules: men are assigned either a Tom Cruise or a Simon Cowell sticker, women are labelled either Sharon Osbourne, Zoe Lucker, Sharon Stone or Victoria Beckham, and everyone is given a little pad of post-it notes. You are instructed to wander around and note the table number of those who possess an agreeable countenance, compose a message for your potential beau and stick it to the wall of love, whereupon the MC (Citybeat's Robin Elliot) will read it out later in the evening. For example, "Simon Cowell of Table 21 thinks that to look upon Zoe Lucker on Table 36 is to receive a glimpse of heaven", or "Victoria Beckham, Table 36 would gladly suck the farts out of the arse of Tom Cruise, Table 21". Of course, it is perfectly reasonable to expect the moderate drinkers of Belfast to remained seated at the same table throughout the course of the evening.

Time wore on and the odds were not looking good: by 11pm there were 63 men present and 23 women. By fortunate coincidence, my friend received a text from a cuttie he had been courting over the Internet, who was in Budda. As this bar is also within the complex, he suggested we meet her and her friends. In the interest of an objective review I insisted we stay until the first party game was over, which MC Rob was in the process of organising. Five women were invited to the dancefloor and instructed to bring a man they had never met before. The grand prize of a bottle of "champagne" was awarded to the first couple to snog for 10 seconds (tongues mandatory). We were out the door before the stomach churning spectacle was over.

Oddly enough, despite the apparent availability of free love in Bar Seven, an incredible crowd of people were queueing up to get into Bambu Beach Club. No surprise really; it's been described as "Sodom and Gomorrah" by someone whose opinion I trust. And evidently the good folk of Belfast are keen for a bit of bacchanalian debauchery, even on a school night. Our sojourn into Budda was cut short by my mate making a hasty exit. He had spotted his web mistress and unfortunately her body mass index was above his tolerance threshold. He had been deceived by the phenomenon known as "Internet Disease" where old, faded, blurred or otherwise non-descript photographs of oneself, taken with bad lighting and at awkward angles are used to make you appear more attractive to people online. Exposing ourselves to the diverse scruples of the occupants back at Bar Seven now seemed like a reasonable option.

We caught MC Rob reading some messages of love, most were unspecific and along the lines of "hot gal wants a hot guy with a hot car and loads of money", an indictment of the unachievable aspirations of so many people today. What would a guy like that be doing in Bar Seven anyway? Not competing in the Full Monty game that's for sure. Poor skinny Damian had no chance of winning, not with his extra large Primark pants; the guy with the muscles was bound to win, and garnered squeals of delight after performing some press ups and exposing his ass. Proof if needs be we are definitely descended from monkeys.

What exactly are the expectations of the punters here? Wandering among the uniforms of Diesel, Replay and stripey millionaire shirts, I gathered a few opinions: Alison (civil servant) reckoned there was about a 1% chance of her finding a fella here, but it would be nice if she did. Allen (construction) was only here because he couldn't get into the Beach Club. He didn't hold out much chance of finding love, as the women were better looking and younger in the Beach Club. Sarah-Jo and Kate (both retail) came after receiving flyers; Kate reckoned her chances of pulling were very slim, Sarah-Jo said hers were very high, but she had a boyfriend so she couldn't. Poor Sarah-Jo was obscenely groped by Anthony (Liverpudlian, civil servant) during the Dirty Dancing competition, but didn't really mind that much. Anthony didn't make much sense, but recited an impressive garage rap for me, but sadly it didn't segue effortlessly with the Abba track that was playing at the time. Anthony also proudly showed me a picture of his girlfriend, who he was moving in with next month. Lovely.

So after having my notes checked for defamatory comments by the efficacious Deborah, it was time to leave. The inevitable consequence of siting a complex full of bars in a remote location is a hideous melee of drunks fighting for taxis at closing time. The crowd was massive, the roaring mob punctuated by breaking glass and stern warnings issued by PSNI in their unfriendly uniforms. A walk home was the only realistic option, and after following well trodden tracks through shrubbery and along a footpathless section of carriageway, the nausea finally lifted. I was home and ready for another little cry at the state of the society we live in. And a wank.

Progress

YouTube is great. Do a search for "Belfast" and you'll get loads of joyriding videos and this progressive thinking tolerant chap.