Blog On The Motorway

For the next seven days I am going to blog about any topic that my readers see fit to get me to write about, having asked on here and on Twitter. Here, for your reading delectation, is Day One, submitted by @punk_beatz on twitter.

Back in my university partying days, when I lived in Sunderland, I found myself and my friends frequenting on particular takeaway with remarkable frequency.  Back then there was only one club night worth mentioning in Sunderland, and that was on Tuesdays at the terribly named Pzazz nightclub.

Opposite said establishment was an eatery whose name escapes me now, but we used to go with such frequency that when we entered the staff behind the counter used to greet us by name and immediately start our orders without questioning. Every Tuesday night, a large garlic bread with cheese.  And I wondered why I could never pull at the end of the night.

One one night, however, my choice of late-night haute-cuisine actually saved my life, or at the very least saved me a beating.  Of my friends, one was a mild mannered chap by the name of Ben, the other a slightly more fiery Scot by the name of Ian.  One thing I should mention about Sunderland for those unfamiliar with the north east is that it is unseasonably rough in the city centre, especially at the weekends. For these reasons most of the non-dance nights used to take place on a weekday evening so as to avoid throwing the 200 or so alternative kids onto the same streets as the ‘townies’ at two in the morning.

On this occasion, however, we stumbled out of Pzazz, all full of vodka jelly and beer and mirth and into said eatery, only to be confronted by the sight of disconsolate looking staff, who all looked towards the far corner of the room as we walked in.

Naturally our eyes followed theirs and in the corner we saw five gigantic skinheads in Fred Perry tops staring back at us. Naturally we turned our attention straight away from them and back to the corner. We ordered, careful not to turn our attention back behind us.

Once we ordered we started talking to the staff as usual, but quickly the man behind the counter retreated into the kitchen, and we heard a voice behind us.  ‘What the fuck are you doing?’ Turning, we saw one of the larger of the herd staring at us, malice in his eyes.

‘Um, ordering?’ I said, trying as hard as possible to show with my face a level of cowardice that would render any ensuing fight to be pointless.  Instead of retorting, he simply shook his head and walked back to his table.  We waited for a few minutes in silence before being handed our food, and then tried to leave unnoticed.

Back on the street we wondered aloud what the hell that had been about, and then, foolishly, Ian looked back into the shop and made the sort of gesture that could only end badly for us.  Without a word the skinheads got up from their table and ran out to follow us.  We pegged it.

We were chased down the street, all the while scrambling to hold on to our delicious food. We rounded a corner onto the high street and I lost control of the big box in my hand, spilling my delicious looking supper all over the street. Cursing, I turned and continued to run.

We stopped a little further along to see if we were still being pursued, just in time to see one of the skinheads round the corner and put one of his boots onto a large slice of garlic bread with cheese. He immediately lost his footing and slid backwards, falling backwards into a shop window, which luckily held, but he slumped to the floor with a force that suggested he wouldn’t be immediately getting back up.

As his friends rounded the corner, they came across their leader lying stricken on the floor and stopped. Without waiting to see any more, we ran on into the night, now completely sober and with me suddenly very hungry.  And that is how one night a garlic bread with cheese saved my life.

So I opened up the topic for today’s post to the hordes of twitter, hoping for some subject I could really get my teeth into, so to speak, and some smart alec suggested the topic of marzipan, the almond based sugary topping of a thousand wedding cakes.  I don’t even like marzipan. 

About a year or so ago, I found myself attending a wedding, one of those horribly expansive and expensive deals which leave you wondering why the couple involved didn’t just go ahead and blow the money on something more lasting, like a house, or coke and hookers.  I managed to get myself out of the service itself, but was left with my name down to attend the ’shebang’ afterwards.

The problem with the service itself was that it was in one of those giant tents that people put up in a large expanse of open ground.  I believe they are called ‘Marquees’.  This in itself is not a problem at most weddings, but this wedding happened to be in Sunderland, one of the windiest places these fair isles have to offer.

As I arrived with a friend, we watched at the bride’s family exited their cars gamely attempting to keep their hats on their heads while their dresses flew up exposing aged wrinkled leg flesh.  One old man was walking with a cane at such a stoop that his body nearly presented itself as a perfect circle.

Once things moved into the marquee though, things didn’t seem so bad, occasional gusts working through cracks in the walls sending occasional napkins into the faces of children and adults alike. The room was starting to develop a blitz mentality, the gentle bonhomie bringing everyone together with a chortle and a smile as only the weather and queing can.

The bride and groom were absent from proceedings up to this point, and given that food appeared to be a long way off, I needed a fag.  I sneaked off from my table (contents: one old deaf lady, one rosy faced drunkard who was already smashed, myself and the dullest couple alive) and discreetly made my way to what appeared to be a door at the back.  Quietly as I could I unzipped it and made my way outside.

Unfortunately as I did so, the wind ripped the plastic from my hand and charged past me in an almighty surge, knocking one old man off his chair and sending unguarded hats into the air. Plates flew from the crockery stand and the trolley carrying the elaborate wedding cake hurtled at speed towards an unguarded door.

It struck the door, which gave easily under the force, and the cake went hurtling into the empty room.  Except that pretty immediately it was obvious that the room wasn’t empty.  Writhing on the floor were two half clad mid-coitus figures, both suddenly covered in a melange of cake and marzipan coating.  As the woman picked herself up, marzipan coating her breasts, which were poking out of the wedding dress she was wearing, the main marquee fell silent save for the rustling of the wind.

As one, the whole crowd turned towards me and fixed me with a look that showed just what distate and contempt they held me in.  Somberly the happy couple brushed themselves down, the groom picking out marzipan from his trousers as he pulled them back up.  They left the room in sheepish silence, trying to avoid the eyes of their parents.

I hadn’t even managed to light my cigarette.