Day 14: At the Copa, Copacabana!

Tonight’s blog was actually inspired by a Facebook update today. It popped up in my memories. I clicked into and their it was,

“Beach Party/Welcome to England party getting well underway”.

Until today I had completed forgotten this had even happened, but what a night. Dazzles had been living with me in Manchester for about a year at this point. Lady Constance has stormed off and got the first boat back to Ireland (more on that soon). My friend ‘Rosatron’ had met this guy from Ireland on a night out and they had kept in contact. This guy was ‘DVC’. DVC came back an forth to England to meet up with Rosatron and a romance was blossoming.

Family is a funny thing. People often equate it to the purely biological connection. These connections are important. We are born into a family and these bonds are with us for the rest of our lives. The ‘family’ we meet in life is rather unique as we have selected these individuals to become part of our own , chosen family. We have all been introduced to Dazzles who would become the first member of the Manchester family. DVC was the next.

DVC had decided he would be the next gay Irish to take the plunge and venture over to the big city of Manchester. The allure of the shiny lights of canal street and romance were too much to resist. Like myself DVC grew up in a small town in Ireland but had always dreamed of leaving for the big city. Bags were packed, goodbyes were said and there he was off to a new life. I had arranged to meet him a few days after he had moved, Rosatron was at work and he knew no one else in they city. I thought it would be a nice time to bond and welcome him to the big city and a friendly face. We met a Piccadilly gardens bus stop. Stood there we exchanged welcomes and a traditional hug. We had met a handful of times before but didn’t really know each other very well. With the aftertaste of ‘The Girl’ my guard was up.

This guard has remained with me most of my adult life. I guess ‘the girl’ contributed to this with my experience with her however she cannot take all the blame. As we continue this blog perhaps some more light will be shed from where this default setting came from. Maybe I have always been like this, maybe not. My resting bitch face however has and probably will always remain. This guard has been used as a shield to protect me over the years. To the outside world it keeps them out and keeps me safe. Usually after a few beverages the guard can slip, however once the after effects of alcohol wear off it suddenly surrounds me again and resumes normal operating parameters. With guard in place and hugs exchanged, Myself and DVC proceeded to have our first drink together, of many, in Canal Street.

Myself and DVC have the best chats when we are drinking together. We can solve all the problems of the world after two pints of beer, we also become budding sociologists who can examine the world around us with such an impressive gaze (or so we think) that can unmask the issues of everyone and anyone around us. This time was no exception. We went for our first cocktail. I wanted to show him what the big city had to offer compared to small town life in Ireland. We both ordered an espresso martini. This was an odd choice.

Most people will think of an espresso Martini as a digetif that should be drank after a meal. Unlike a cosmopolitan or a long island iced tea (which features regularly in my cocktail rotation) its not really a starting drink. Myself and DVC needless to say have never had another espresso Martini together and I for one have probably never had one at all. It was perfectly tasty, all together fine. It just now feels like an odd choice? Was I trying to seem the height of cosmopolitan living? No doubt I would of failed in this regard, the boy from Ireland who had been living in Manchester for a year still had a  lot to learn…

That afternoon we laughed, we giggled as we chatted, the guard would come down. It all felt like I was speaking to one of my oldest friends, very easy, very comfortable. It was nice. We talked about throwing a welcome to Manchester party. We both started to plan and get excited about this. I think it was my idea that it should have a theme, I love a good theme.

“Beach Party!!!!!”

The idea just clicked. DVC agreed and possibly was being far too polite to disagree with my extreme over excitement. I love throwing parties and I especially like them to be out of the ordinary. I got home that night and switched on my laptop. I searched party supply websites well into the night. Still tipsy from the afternoon of drinking. I searched all sorts of crap.

Hula skirt, add to basket.

Hawaiian Leis, add to basket.

Inflatable parrots and monkeys…. too far? add to basket!

I had gone nuts and spent over £60,00 on the most tacky crap imaginable. It would be worth it I told myself. Everyone must love a theme as much as me. The week in work seemed to take forever. I just wanted to finish that Friday and start preparing. 17.00 came and I was out the door. I jumped on the number 22 bus to Monton and I was bursting with excitement and anticipation. Luckily for me all my inflatable crap has arrived the day earlier. I had rang mummy to tell her all about my plans and what I was doing.

“that’s lovely Michael, random, but lovely!”

I had neglected to tell her how much I had spent as I would of been on the phone for hours discussing the sensible use of money. She had the luxury that she always had the brain of an accountant. I had the spending brain of teen star on the down turn of their career. Blowing through cash at an exponential rate. She was excited for me though. I could tell. She would always tell me to ring her on the Sunday and tell her about my night. I guess we both missed those drunken chats at 3am on her bed, this was the next best thing. She would always say the same thing, “even if your tired we don’t have to chat for long I just like speaking to you”. Yes mummy was always thinking of my tiredness. Their were times I would neglect to ring on the Sunday after a hangover kicked in. The Monday would come and the response would be “oooo, so you haven’t forgotten the phone number”. I would always giggle and we would resume status quo.

The Saturday had arrived. Alcohol was purchase. Cigarettes bought. I was ready to meet the boys and set up. Myself and Dazzles spent the best part of an afternoon blowing up inflatables and hanging garlands. We had a punch bowl filled with some form of brown ugly liquid that although not aesthetically pleasing, really hit the spot. David arrived in shock and possible horror to find his new home filled with crap everywhere in  every colour in the rainbow. It looked like Claire’s Accessories over Gay pride.

It was gorgeous.

As the party got underway we thought about booking our taxi to head to the glittering lights on Canal Street. Hula skirts on, Leis round our necks. We were ready. We arrived and decided to head to Oscars. Now again this was an odd choice. Myself and the Belfastonian with the American accent would have a love affair with this bar in future years however DVC not soo much. Oscars is a little basement bar with 20 seats maximum belting our showtunes. You can hear everything from Doris Day to Barbara Streisand. Sounds really gay doesn’t it? It is. Its amazing. So we all turned to the entrance looking like we had been shipwrecked from a really dodgy cruise where we were the budget entertainment.

“sorry you all cant come in wearing all that”.

We were all outraged? How dare the bouncer not look past those tacky outfits and see the fabulous creatures standing before him. We reluctantly  complied. Went down the stairs. We put all the tacky crap back on once in the bar and continued our night. We were such rebels, it was exhilarating! Sticking it to ‘the man’!

I can recall very little from the rest of the night apart from the laughter. We all laughed so much that night. Every night we would go out. We both got each other and it was lovely. Maybe id met a new friend? Maybe the guard  would come down. Eventually it did. That is how I met the second member of the Manchester family.

That Sunday I wasn’t too hungover to ring mummy. I told her all the escapades from the night before. I remember her laughing uncontrollably, she knew what I was like. I was her son and she had experienced similar antics before. She was amused. She was happy. She talked about ‘the girl’, as we often would reflect on from time to time. She said,

“things happen for a reason Michael, cutting that girl out of your life was the best decision you ever made, I am so proud of you”.

She was right.