The Curse of the Monthly Pay Day. It could be a kiddies bedtime story, and a ruddy good one too. Tell your son about the dangers and pitfalls of only seeing your account balance struggle to poke its head into CREDIT for a couple of hours, gasping what little fresh, untainted air it can before it’s dragged back down by Will’s Stag Do, Mum’s birthday present, another night in Soho with Destiny (probably not her real name), or even a boozy night in Shoreditch. Sucked down – with the power of Monica Lewinsky – by something bearing a strong resemblance to a Rum & Coke accompanied by a line of shots, waiting for their order like a row of pawns on the chess board of your life. Little Billy goes to bed shitting himself sure, he wouldn’t sleep an ounce and have nightmares of himself constantly falling. Falling past numbers, through a visual representation of a NatWest printed statement, mixed with ‘We’re in VEGAS’ style neo-light signs boasting all the temptations he’ll spend his money on when he’s older. Don’t distress, you’re (I’m) not a bad parent. It’s not just a sadistic plan to get young Billy to piss himself, then point and laugh at his stupid face. It’s an important lesson, one he must learn quickly if he’s ever to survive in this harsh, harsh world. But Billy’s a good student.

Now it’s 20 years on. Billy’s all grown up. He’s got a job, a bank account, and a penchant for big drinks and strong women. So when Billy’s mate Akin (oh yeah... Billy’s me by the way) invites him out for the same night he’s due to get paid, he posts his RSVP quicker than German public transport. When, earlier that day he opens up his paycheck to find a rather substantial bonus, that only makes matters worse – They couldn’t give you that extra couple of quid when you actually need a couple of extra quid (4 days into the pay day bender, when the drugs start to wear off and you realise the hookers all look like your mum and you’re going to prison) could they?

Akin had suggested a night in Shoreditch with some of his old work buddies. All of his new workmates are boring bastards and didn’t want to come, and all of my workmates were off celebrating the 4th leaving drinks of the month, it was down to Ak-man and myself to find each other in the usual meeting place, Pitcher & Piano Liverpool St. Because his old company is based in Loughton (in Essex), and because a lot of the gang (supposedly) on their way, are (Essex) girls, they can’t just get on the tube and come down – half hour job at most. No! They’ve got to stop off in Nu Bar – One of Teddy Sheringham’s haunts if you ever wanted to know how classy it is – for a ‘couple’ first. A COUPLE!? We’re bloody waiting for you over here. No matter. Akin’s brought some good company along with him and an (I’m sure) interesting story about something-or-other, I can’t really remember. Suddenly he breaks me off mid-Award Winning-joke to read a text – This better be good I think. It’s them, they’re getting in a taxi. A TAXI!? It’s Loughton to Liverpool St! Nu Bar is next to the station, Pitcher & Piano is next to the station and it’s not raining, why could they POSSBILY be getting a taxi? Meanwhile we’ve just finished Round Two, and Ak assures me they’ll be here any minute so we shouldn’t get another one (it’s his round). 20 minutes later I shout ‘Balls to THIS! They’re not coming chief! Let’s just get another one yeah?’. “OK” comes the reply. Another 10 minutes are spent fighting our way to the bar. As soon as he opens his mouth to order, he gets another text. They’re in Light bar. Bloody hell.

“We’re on the guest list” Aks turns and says to me as we walk inside the bar. As we approach the ticket barrier I realise what he should have said was ‘I’m on the guest list.’ Not even a hint of a James anywhere near that thing. A little bit of charm gets you a long way in this world – Billy remembered hearing once. So after paying the correct price for entry, they opened the doors. “You’ve got to know how to talk to these people.” I boasted as we swaggered to the bar. Turns out, just about every single person working for his old company was there that night... except the large majority of people he knows. Oh well.

I absolutely despise ‘small talk’ talking about your, or someone else’s job is the most boring thing a person can be forced to live through. But it serves a purpose. There are so few things to open conversations with these days. Compliments? ‘That’s a nice shirt.’ Nope, they just think you’re making a play, worse if you’re talking to a guy. A joke? Nope... I asked one of Akin’s friends where toilets were...

Me: “Where’s the toilet in this place?”

Akin’s mate: “It’s just down the steps, you can’t miss it.”

Me: “You’d be surprised. I got it all over the seat last time.”

Now... I think that’s a pretty funny joke. Apparently not. All I got was a weird silence and a quizzical look. But try “So do you also work at...” (I know they do work there). Cue a couple of minutes’ uncomfortable chat about their shit job, and about my shit job. And BINGO! We’re comfortable enough with each other to make shit jokes and insincere compliments. It’s an important skill I’m happy to have mastered. Especially important when playing the role of the Wing-Man. I’m off the market myself. Which, when you’re on a night out, meeting new people... is fucking fanTASTIC. If you’re single, you’re always thinking about possible partners. If you quite fancy the girl/boy you’re talking to, then you’ve got to be on your best behaviour. If you don’t fancy them, or even if they’re the wrong sex, you’ve still got to give them your A-game. Perhaps they’ll have a friend/flatmate/sister/brother. You won’t get introduced if they think you’re a dick will you? But when you don’t want to pull, you’re free from the shackles of giving a shit. You can talk to someone, offend them, and move on. Plenty more people to talk to.

The Wing-Man’s job involves constantly chatting to new people. If your man entertaining a group of more than one, he might need you to split them up, waltz in and take them (minus one) away from him, to work his magic. Or, he already has his target, and just needs you to fuck for 20 minutes, give him some space. It’s a dangerous game, as became only too apparent last night. After my triumphant return from one of my many toilet jaunts, I found Akin chatting to a lucky lady. And thought I’d better not interrupt, thus destroying his well-built mojo. I’ll go and chat to someone else. The problem being, the only one of these people I’ve actually met before tonight (bar Akin), is the girl he’s talking to. Shits. Most of the other people I’ve met tonight, I’ve offended. Double Shits. It’s at that point I spot him. By himself. Dancing like Ross (shuffling slowly side to side, with his head down). The dance of the drunk. He’ll be nice and accommodating I think. And so I strike up a conversation like a match. A match, which burns for half a second before meeting a freezing wind. Why did I think this would be a good idea?! This guy’s the Australian Ross! I can’t tell a word he’s saying! I manage to make out him telling me he doesn’t work for the same company as everyone else, he’s here with his flatmates. Never one to miss an opportunity, I throw him to one side and go and talk to them. Struggling to get out of a conversation with a chip-pan, I’ve now found myself inside a heart-to-heart with a full-on forest fire. Turns out, his flatmates are a couple. A couple, whom the guy half wants to be swingers. He keeps offering his Mrs. to me for money. What do you say to that!? “Yeah, she’s hot. I’ll fuck her!” PUNCH ***** “Haha... No thanks, she’s rough” PUNCH ***** Instead I laugh it off and try to save the guy a night on the sofa (She can HEAR him), I tell her I offered him a million pounds to sleep with me in my own ‘Indecent Proposal’, but he turned me down... “He must really love you!” They left soon after that. But not before Akin gives me his drink to look after on his way to the toilet. I take the opportunity to pretend he’s pulling me away, only to find myself in a nuclear conversation with a girl who’s trying to convince me to dance with a drunken Polish guy.

After that, the core party-goers transfer themselves to Bedroom Bar where I buy one £15 round (Curse of the Monthly Pay Day) before adding a chapter to the Last Tube case study. For me: My house, an episode of Better Off Ted and a take-away await. For Akin: 30 minutes more of tube, a drunken man and the drunken man’s take away (heaved all over the end of the carriage) await.

If all Pay Day’s are like this, I’m slightly glad they only come once a month.