I’m at a party. I’m sitting downstairs. The life that previously burnt around the house is fading, the remainers are upstairs in one of the bedrooms I think. I was there but feeling slightly claustrophobic with all the chatter and slightly worried I was scaring people by me plonking myself into the corner and then proceeding to clean my trainers, an obsessive tendency that I am unwilling to resolve, I thought it best to remove myself from the situation. So, this is where you find me. I’m very cold. I found my jacket in the place that I had stowed it in secrecy earlier in the evening and have it on, buttoned up to the top, and collar erect. I’m happy with the state of my trainers, as I place my focus upon them momentarily, well worth the clean-up. I’ve seen a girl wearing a North Face hoodie as her trousers, I don’t know my arse from my elbow at this point. A very comfortable, stylistic decision I consider internally. The friends I arrived with, have now departed. I feel it pertinent to say that my comfortability has fallen astronomically without the safety blanket of my last line of defence, not to belittle my friends, but it is always nice when you try the excruciating task of introducing yourself to new people and having flopped, as a result of an awkward answer, laughter poorly timed or just nothing in common pure and simple, it is always good to have people you can rely on and whose conversation you will enjoy with little effort from either side, as well as being able to compare notes on the setting that we have found ourselves lost in. It is that, or the paranoia. That’s never fun. When you think back to the milliseconds of human interaction you’ve had with every person you’ve met this evening and considered every possible action, word you’ve uttered to them, double and triple thinking about what they may have taken from our shared encounter. It’s stressing me out as I look again at my trainers’ heels to check if I have avoided any prick standing on the back of them and planting some filthy scuffs upon these works of art. Laughter muffled through various wooden doors, the remnants of conversations, words, sounds carried through the house, reduces me to only gathering snippets of what is going on upstairs. I guess it is lonely. Maybe they are discussing how I must feel being the least attractive of my siblings, that question was posed to me within minutes of arriving tonight. It’s nice to get down to the real grittiness earlier. Yes, I’m okay with it, perfectly fine, as I stand out of camera shot of the gloried ones, keep the freak out, in the cage where he belongs. I think I should get my phone out. Yeah, that will do nicely. If someone comes down, it may look like I’m busy, just trying to sort out the Hong Kong stock market mate, I will cry, I’m losing points on my cement interests in the Far East! Chortling briefly with any passers-by. But in all honesty, my phone is now my only friend here. I can stay confined within the glorious blue light it radiates, I’m happy here. I don’t have to try and please anyone or do anything stupid or provide opportune moments for ridicule. Like a clown. So, I’ll check on Youtube. It is still fucking cold. There feels like a breeze coming from somewhere. Waiting for the phone to bleep into action, I stand, stamp my feet twice, like I’m in a PoW camp, trying to keep the cold from my bones as I take respite from the digging of identical trenches for potatoes, hoping they don’t get frozen too quick, and I find the back door open. I poke my head out, fuck that, and close it swiftly. I want to sit down, but I wouldn’t mind some water, lets find a clean glass amongst the debris. I return to my seat, glass sparkling and filled, and prepare to go down the vortex of cheap and gratifying laughs, with hopefully an educational tinge. I look at my recommended videos. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Anthony Hopkins. Alec Baldwin. A film called The Edge. Looks tragic but here goes. The epic voiceover voice takes hold giving us the pivotal backstory to these well formed and original character creations. Ooo intrigue, rivalry over Elle Macpherson, the ingénue. They give each other mysterious looks. “Each the essence of the civilised man”, the omniscient being informs me. I’m engrossed. They go on an adventure. And their plane is attacked by seagulls. What the actual fuck. They crash land, and they start twitching with bat shit between their eyes. Now, here in the wild, they’ve revealed their true selves. So much macho posturing. I’m tiring very quickly at this already, my concentration programmed now for just a meagre minute before it must find something else to satisfy itself with. Everything about this moment is grimy and depressing me the fuck out. I feel like King Grubb. Props to the British Rap Artist for possibly the greatest name ever. I am forced to turn it off as soon as we are introduced to the Kodak Bear stalking them through the woods. However satisfying it may be to see Alec Baldwin’s bearded face, screaming and foaming at the mouth as Bart the Bear tears off his leg. What the fuck am I doing? I’m still sitting in the cold, downstairs. I think I have had my time in banishment away from human contact, but at the same time I don’t want to go up there. Fuck it, I stand up, not even going to let my mind have any control over my actions. I want to engage with people, have some fun, be a charming guest, remembered fondly in the morning, rather than an insular, strange and forgetful guest. I am going to be great. As I walk up the stairs towards the noise. I’m psyching myself up. I’m going to ask these people what their opinions about the possibility of a Tory leadership battle, what they think about the re-nationalisation of the railways, and the most pressing question, does Brexit mean Brexit? It is going to be exhilarating. And my trainers look fantastic.
James Creber 