Events
Ramone’s 25th - Brought to you by James Wormald -
This, (as you may have shrewdly guessed from the inventive title) was an outing to celebrate every one of the 25 wonderful years Ramone Dixon has been alive. Just as the world must have seemed so different in 1984, without the man on the planet (I’ve read a history book on the year, it was B…Leak!), so did the celebration without him. Let me start by explaining the planned plan.
Only really a short night (ending around 12 to take advantage of the weekend late-night tube), nothing too adventurous or expensive, we’re in recession after all folks. An intelligent move as it prevented anyone from utilising the ‘No money’ excuse, currently doing the rounds like an Olympic sprinter with one leg longer than the other. The cheap as their soggy chips Wetherspoons on Camden Lock (Ice Wharf) was the venue. 20:00 sharp was the time.
However me being me, and me knowing Ramone well enough, as well as knowing Akin would be in attendance… I knew the chances of anyone being there before 20:30 resembled the proverbial snowball’s. A snowball, which after making the journey to Hell, had been forced inside a kiln along with an electric radiator, and an extra jumper. So I turned up at 20:50, expecting to be around 10 minutes late. Turns out, as soon as I got off the tube, I was hit with a text.
Sender: Akin.
“Running a bit late, should be there by 21:00”
Now, this was sent at 20:00 (the time we were supposed to meet)… sighing, I waited around looking like I’d been stood up for a blind date. Checking my phone, and looking at the door every 5 seconds. Until about 21:10, when another text came my way.
Sender: Akin
“Might be another 30min”
As I’ve said before, knowing Akin as I do… ‘Another 30min’ means exactly 1 hour. What do I do? I can’t get a drink… it’s Saturday night. Do I want to be stared/sneered/laughed at as someone who’s quite blatantly been stood up, but being the only one who hasn’t realised? Not magnificently no. So I just started walking. Walked up the road. When I got to the end of the road, I carried on walking up the next road.
Realising I’m starting to sound like Forrest Gump, I carried on walking up to the next tube station. I figure I’ll carry on walking until 21:40. It’ll take me 20 minutes to walk back, and if they’re not there by 22:00 I figure that’s late enough to just sack it off.
Now realising this story is becoming as boring as watching Forrest Gump (and that had Ping Pong and Elvis!), I’ll fast forward to 22:00, I get back to the pub and they’ve just arrived, pretty much at the same time. Sob story over, let’s get the actual event. The first wave of people was reasonably small. Ramone, his Mrs. Renée, Akin, Maria, and myself.
Luckily, a table was collared quickly despite the place being busier than the bathroom at a Bulimic’s convention dinner. Two in fact were collared, and then separated for some unknown reason by Renée. One for her, Ramone and Akin to share, and one for Maria and myself. This must have been for one of two reasons. Either she wanted some quality time with her boyfriend on his birthday, and Akin was stomping in on the moment as unaware as a blind man looking for his wife in a fishmongers, or she was pushing Maria (whom I had never met previous) and I together to ‘get to know each other’. Both were possible, but whatever, I was enjoying having someone new to talk about me with.
Pretty soon some more people managed to show up (by now, a full 3 hours late with only one hour left… surely so inefficient it’s not worth bothering). I didn’t catch any of their names, so I’ll leave them out of the story to save my own embarrassment. As the place started to clear out, I’m presuming in time for the opening of all the similarly chavvy clubs in the area, a large table was procured. Handy, for our numbers had risen to around 10. And some champagne was bought by someone with more money than me, and a lot more generosity as it was shared amongst the group.
As it was getting pretty late, there was just enough time to down my free champagne, which I had no idea who to thank for, so just raised my glass and thanked everyone for coming down for Ramone… then got out of there still hoping I could catch the last tube. Horrifyingly however, my plans were held in stasis by an epitomisingly drunken English ‘girl’, hell-bent on making sure she’d received every single guy’s face print on her massive tits. Still reeling, and expecting the inevitable Vietnam style Post-War syndrome flash backs of sweaty, spongy, fake-tanned flesh pressed against my face, with the nipple getting closer and closer to rearing it’s ugly little head at every instalment, I quickly made my retreat.
Lucky was I, as thanks to being… *shudder* ‘held up’, I was at the bottom of the stairs to the Central Line platform at Bank, when I heard the tannoy: “This is the last train on the East bound line. The last Eastbound train” myself and another guy turned to look at each other. All I saw in his eyes must have been all he saw, staring back into mine. Fear. Sprinting up the stairs, urging each other on like a couple of old Marathon-running friends, we make it onto the platform just as the deafening ‘door closing’ beep is going off like an air-raid siren. We ‘Saving Private Ryan’-it onto the carriage, through the closing doors, one of us might has well have fallen, with the other picking him up and throwing his limp, disabled carcass on.. it couldn’t have been more cool.
But we made it in the end. Hurrah, we share a little manly hug, then of course realise that we ARE men… cough, and sit on opposite sides of the carriage as far away from each other as possible, not daring to make eye-contact.