Le Van, Centre de brisol, 10h du soir
Rouler dans Bristol à 10h du soir, c'est comme entrer dans l'unité de haute sécurité d'une prison pour retardés. Partout où je regarde, je vois des filles habillées comme des stars pornos, chancelant dans des talons cheap avec leur visages cheap, espérant désespérément ressembler à Ke$ha mais ressemblant en fait à Britney Spears en pleine débauche. Le pire c'est quand elles tapent leur talon contre le trottoir pendant qu'elles marchent, ça fait ce bruit. C'est ce bruit de filles commerciales dans leur pire état. C'est le bruit qui me fait comprendre ces adolescents fusilleurs en Amérique, parce que leur démarche de mouton ressemble à des clones de salopes et elles aiment ça. Elles croient authentiquement que c'est une fierté d'avoir à ressembler comme tout le monde, [...?] Le regard. La putain de même chose.
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The Van, Central Bristol, 10pm
Driving around Bristol at ten at night is like entering the high-security unit of a prison for the mentally retarded. Everywhere I look are girls dressed like porno stars, tottering around in cheap heels with their cheap faces, desperately hoping they look like Ke$ha but actually looking like Britney Spears in the middle of her breakdown. The worst is when they've had a few and they catch their heel on the pavement while they walk and it makes that sound. That's the sound of commercial girls at their worst. It's a sound which makes me understand those teenage shooters in America, because not only do the fucking sheep walk around looking like slutted-up clones, but they're pleased about it. They genuinely believe that there is some great sense of success to be had by looking like everyone else, getting off your tits and getting felt up by some random who you won't be able to pick out of a line-up afterwards because they All. Look. The. Fucking. Same.
I'd been trying to explain these sentiments to Alo, but there was no talking him down off the cloud of passing the driving test, or the fact that we were in the middle of whore clone-ville and he had some wheels, a fact he genuinely believed guaranteed his dick seeing imminent action.
If he makes me get out of the van into the cesspit of central Bristol on a Saturday night, I think I may have to vomit in his face until he lets me off.
'So, where shall we go my esteemed guest? The world is our oyster.'
He really was into this. I hadn't seen him this happy in weeks, not since he'd been having to work on the farm after we'd finished exams and his dad gave him his reward. When his dad brought out the van I thought he was going to faint. I have to admit, even I like the van. In here, we're safe from the guys who think the way I dress is all the excuse needed to start on me. Not that I'm scared, I just don't do brain-dead confrontation quite as well as them.
'The Keller?' I asked hopefully, suggesting the least intimidating and best metalhead pub in Bristol.
'No way! At best there'll be about three girls in there, and they'll be fat metalheads too. I am using my veto, Richard.'
'Fine. That's just fine. If you want to prostrate yourself around to girls who, let's be honest mate, see you as some farmboy loser that they'd get with only in the event of a nuclear attack and possibly not even then, then that's fine.'
'Bit harsh, mate . . .'
'Sorry. You're not that bad, I know that. It's just less obvious to girls who've been taught to look for perma tans and shirts when they consider guys.'
'Gotcha. We'd be better off at a house party don't you think? I swear that guy from school said he was having one tonight, remember Keyon?'
'The posh boy who wants to be poor?'
'That's the one. He's squatting now in St Werburghs with some of the other hippies. We should go.'
'Fine, but first sign of actual taunting or generic insults and I'm out, OK?'
He started to sing then, one of his stupid made-up songs about getting some. I wanted to hate it, but I didn't. He makes me laugh. I caught myself start singing along to the chorus and he turned to me smiling like an idiot, raising his voice. I stopped pretty quickly.