Breaking The Rules

Sometimes you see people that make a mark on your day by the way in which they tackle the world. Its usually to do with an air of disregard for society’s rules and a complete disregard for the state of equilibrium that is carrying on around them. These people, or life mavericks as I like to refer to them, are only ever spotted fleetingly, dashing through crowds wearing fancy dress in mid day or dancing on a passing bus and whenever I witness one, it gives me a certain want to tell the world to get fucked, put on a bear suit and breakdance in the middle of the road. The main reason I don’t do this is because my want would be quickly overtaken by my sheer embarrassment and need to confirm to the normal ways. That and I don’t own a bearsuit and wouldn’t be able to breakdance well enough for cars to actually stop and watch rather than run me over. Let me tell you now, there is nothing sadder than a dead bear man in the middle of the road halfway through a jerky electric boogaloo. Except maybe a dead penguin man.

Yesterday I saw one of these life mavericks and was, as always duly impressed. Myself and Paul Byrne were standing outside the Kings Head in Crouch End at 3pm in the afternoon. These details, no matter how hugely dull they might seem, are all relevant. I promise I won’t go into a Jane Austen like description of every tiny thing that surrounded us, such as the large glass windows reflecting the Broadway or the maroon coloured awning under which we stood, passing the time with small banter about days gone by. God I hate Jane Austen. Its lucky she’s already dead or I’d write her several letters, all of which would say ‘stop describing things and tell the bloody story you paper wasting fool!’ Pride and Prejudice? Smide and Smedjudice more like. Anyway, as we stood there, the social rouge appeared and raced passed us. A smallish woman, about 5’3″ ish – oh yes I can judge all heights below me like some sort of criminal investigator legend. All heights taller than me however are judged merely as ‘huge’ – with a slim frame, in a puffer jacket and pony tail, supping Super Tennents. Most of you, at this point, will be unfazed by such happenings. Super Tennents? Being drunk by someone who sounds a bit skanky in the afternoon? Well, you’d be right to guess that this is of usual standards, unless, like me, you are the holder of a mental jigsaw piece putting together brainium, and then, already, you will have noted that we are in Crouch End. Even the most homeless people here sup on Pimms and make sure that it was organically sourced. So for this woman to get the tramp killer drink, she’d have to try hard. But, and this is a big but to the extent you may call it a booty, she wasn’t just drinking the Super Tennents out of the can. No! That would be too easy. That would be obeying the man. NO! She was drinking it out of a tiny hen-do straw shaped like a penis! TAKE THAT ALL EXPECTATIONS!

‘What?’ you ask. ‘Why?’ as well. Possibly ‘who’ and ‘where’ but I’ve answered one of those and the other I don’t know, so those would be pointless asks. In fact I don’t really have the answers for any of them, but what I will say, is that its clear that this women was doing such things for many reasons. Firstly, she likes drinking shit lager through a straw. Good for her. Its a tough drink to down so you may as well make the process as comfortable as possible. Not only that but she has chosen a durable hard plastic penis straw so it will last despite the corrosive aspects of a can of ST. Secondly, maybe she likes constantly sucking on a tiny tiny plastic dong. Why should we judge her for this? I most certainly won’t. If anything I applaud it. I’d like to see more people drinking drinks from outrageous and inappropriate vestibules. I for one may start supping Diet Coke out of a squirrel carcass. I won’t. But I might. I won’t though. Either way, what we need to take away from this is that even if she doesn’t like Super Tennents or penis straws, she clearly woke up one day and said ‘I fully understand the fuddy duddy principles of the Crouch End crew and I am going to take them, and fuck them all upside their stupid head, whoop.’ Maybe not in those words.

I discovered via Twitter that several people have seen this woman around the area doing exactly the same thing. I am very pleased to know she’s consistent. If you spot her, please report in and if enough come through, I may well start a Facebook group. She deserves it.

Its my best mate Mat’s 30th birthday today. This is a turning point for our group of friends as he is first to head into the wilderness of a fourth century of living. I’m pleased he does this 6 months before me, as I can watch and see exactly what will happen. So far, he has just stated that its a bit ‘warmer’ than before. I worry this means it hit midnight and his bladder gave up. I fully expect him to get interested in gardening soon and only listen to Radio 3. Mat doesn’t realise that I constantly shall use him as an age scout, witnessing all his mishaps between now and my birthday in order to be prepared. I’m going to question him lots today about how it feels to be 30. I’m sure it feels exactly the same but I’m already dreading it, worried that I’ll spend my 30th year regretting all the things I haven’t done by that age and feeling as though life is a race. I have a long list of things I wanted to have done by now, including eating a prickly bear and dressing as a bear and breakdancing in the middle of the road. I hope what will actually happen is that I just don’t really notice a change and one day I’ll be supping on a Super Tennents through a penis straw and have a sudden moment of clarity, that, you know what? Nothing really matters.

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