Saturday night saw me and my brothers on one of our rare nights out together. It's not often these days that we get to spend time together, particularly brotherly time when there are no wives or girlfriends around. So, on this particular one, circumstances had been favourable and we had decided to hit the town. The academic brother, who you already know, was in town for the weekend. The music business brother was available and I was, well, as available as I ever am, which is rather a lot.
The parents were excited as we were all going to stay the night at their place. It meant that my Mum would get all motherly and the old man would pretend to be as calm and collected as ever, while secretly feeling a bit chuffed that his three sons were around. Saturday afternoon consisted mostly of myself and Tarquin trying to set up a wireless internet system thing in the olds' house. It eventually worked rather well, but only after about two hours' worth of calls to AOL. We learned a lot about Indian call centres, my fellow, called Hash, had been working there for three and a half years but was worth his weight in gold, not that I actually know how much he weighs or how much gold costs to be honest.
Then, music biz bro turned up, in his slow moving four wheel drive thing, the sort I thought people under fifty weren't allowed to buy. After the usual splashes of cologne and that men's thing of spending ages getting ready so that we looked as if we hadn't spent ages getting ready, we set off for Richmond. The evening was a glorious sunshiney one, Richmond was going to be packed full to the rafters with its normal mix of chavs and beautiful people and they'd mostly be out by the river. So we headed away from the river to a bar owned by one of Tarquin's friends.
It's a pleasant place, we know a few people there and it seems to attract a slightly older clientele than many of Richmond's other places. So we got there, got some drinks in and settled in to fend off the women, enjoy the ambience and shoot the shit about life.
Music biz bro has a best friend, who is a friend of all of ours', who's a total legend. We all grew up together and used to play football, cops and robbers, cars, bikes and you name it with him and his brother. He's also a drummer, one of the first people that I used to watch playing in detail, and a fine bloke. Oh, he's also a bit of a love god. He's got boy band looks and always has some kind of blonde stunner hanging onto his arm, invariably she's about half his age with very rich parents. His name is Weston.
We'd grabbed ourselves a table by the window and the window was one of those massive french type things that was open. Suddenly there was a flurry of activity outside the window and a noise that sounded like an old scooter without an exhaust screeching to a halt. You've guessed it. It was an old scooter without an exhaust screeching to a halt, with Weston riding it. He dismounted, then got off the scooter, then jumped through the window. Fortunately it was open.
Now, without trying to sound big headed I think it's fair to say that me and my siblings are three reasonably good looking blokes. We get our fair share of looks from the opposite sex and the odd bit of conversation now and again. But, as Weston jumped through the window and proceeded to remove his crash helmet and gloves, we felt like the ugly supporting actors in Happy Days when the Fonz turned up. Even before he had removed the gloves there was some kind of blonde apparition at our table telling him how great his band were last week. With my usual man's intuition and knack for reading people I knew immediately, from the way she ignored me and my brothers, that she was a lesbian.
Weston joined us for a few drinks before going off to a party somewhere. It was reminiscent of Flashart in Blackadder as women swooned at him and he exchanged pleasantries with almost every person in the bar. Rik Mayall was brilliant as Flashart and many would say that his was one of Blackadder's most memorable characters. Lines such as
"You treat your woman like your kite............get inside her at least 5 times a day, and take her to heaven & back!"
Flashart left us. We told him where we were going to be later that night, at our local curry house, he made a spectacular exit through the French window and we watched as he attempted to wheelspin away into the sunset. I gather that wheelspins on a scooter with an engine about as powerful as a glass of warm water aren't that easy so Weston actually just rode off, narrowly missing a bus that he hadn't spotted whilst waving to us.
We stayed at the wine bar, drinking and chatting about the usual topics that three brothers talk about. I asked them who their perfect woman was, in terms of looks alone. We chatted about this for quite while, in the amount of detail that only a man would fully understand. Music Biz bro said Kelly Brook, that brunette woman. I can't remember what Tarquin said but I, of course, said Jennifer Aniston. We perused the whole subject of women for a while. After the perusal we concluded that they are indeed strange creatures, perhaps you know one, or maybe you went to school with one.
We left the wine bar and headed off into a taxi to the local Indian restaurant. It's a bit of a legend this restaurant. My family has eaten there for about the last twenty years and takeaways to my parents' house are one of the restaurant's regular activities. My parents are convinced that one of the chefs, a Sri Lankan, makes a "special" salad for them. It is special, only if you consider tomatoes, onions and lettuce special though. We ate our way through way too much food, a particular hooby of mine, we did the usual chit chat thing with the manager / owner of the place. You know the score, when you tell the bloke how your parents are, how many kids you've got and what you do for a living, only to have to answer exactly the same questions to the same person the next week.
The restaurant gradually emptied and before long we were the only customers and the door was closed to new customers. The waiters were doing that waiter's thing where they scuttle around in the background to make you well aware that you're required to go as soon as possible. Then, there was a knocking sound on the locked front door. We looked, the waiters looked and we all saw a bloke in a crash helmet outside. It was Weston. He had done his night's partying and womanising and decided to come and meet us. Music biz bro had kindly got all our food put in a doggy bag for Weston, he's probably the type who often doesn't eat for days at a time. We had a laugh for a while and then headed home.
I remember Weston riding around the pavement on the scooter with Tarquin on the back of it, then he deposited his passenger and headed off into the night, doggy bag of Indian food hanging from the handlebars. I imagine the weight of the bag would have about halved the speed of his scooter, but he seemed not to mind.
We walked the short walk back, I left my brothers to play carrom and I went to bed. As I fell asleep I though of life and how it must be for a fellow like Weston; an endless stream of gorgeous blonde women hanging on his every word, wild sex without any commitment or inhibitions, continual partying, singing in one band and playing the drums in a few others.
What kind of like is that?