I still have not had time to buy the right microphone to record late night drunken street conversations for my planned series of podcasts ‘The Fitzroy dialogues‘, but I was woken the Saturday before last after 1am with another excellent example of alcohol induced existential angst. It was worth coming out onto the balcony to watch and listen as the story progressed.
A bunch of male gen Ys are loitering in the street. One guy is crying, his chest heaving. ‘My 21st is ruined’ he bawled. His mates are standing around him looking sheepish. Two try to comfort him. Two more stand around lighting cigarettes. Two more stand, hands in pockets, indifferent or bored. ‘You don’t understand’ wails the unnamed birthday boy. Fucking emos.
One of the two trying to comfort the protagonist puts his arm around his shoulder and gently leads him away from the group. The comforter is trying to talk to the protagonist. The former is speaking quietly, and I can’t hear him, but the latter makes enough noise for both of them. They continue further down the street away from the group.
One of the group left behind, who clearly ranks lower on the emotional intelligence scale than the rest, calls out ‘get your hands off him Nick’. He seems to be referring to the comforter, who still has his arm around his friend’s shoulders. Nick either does not hear or ignores the call.
The remaining group start bickering about whether the protagonist deserves any sympathy and whether Nick is a fag for being considerate. As their voices and their enthusiasm for the topic drop I become unable to hear them. Nick and the birthday boy are now more than a block away in the other direction. The street is quiet again and I can go back to bed.