Ah,...the atrocities of Rugby

The darkness is in and introverted is 2 years old. Plus its a Wednesday. Who needs an excuse to drink? I run out of the office like an escaped convict and make the first stop at Sarit. ATM card slotted in ...hum hum hum hum. No money. what? That can't be right. I move to the next machine. Zip zero. It is going to be very limited fun tonight.

On to the hang-out. Kamikaze and Samborera are already there. Drinks are flowing. The doc arrives. I guess when it comes to dear Tusker there are no holds barred cause drink is flowing with little or no effort on my part (thank you folks!)

Then boom! kamikaze spots his elusive lady P. This man has quite the sight cause the place is dark and there is cigarette smoke everywhere.

Lets take a look back.
Saturday 23 June 2007.
A different club, same activities: Drinking, admiring fine women, attempting to talk to them. One different activity. A lady "mans" up and directly goes for Kamikaze. Lucky ba**ard. She wants to dance with the guy. She is rubbing herself on him. I almost swallow my tongue. Kamikaze is not moving. He points to his knees and gives a long narration about a short and eventful rugby career in a past life. Says can't dance. Knee injuries. Lack of knee oil or something like that. Absolutely refuses to dance. But hey, Kamikaze is a f**___ star so the mama sticks around (who knows, the chap might change his mind with the convincing effects of alcohol). Pep talk. At some point she leaves, dejected. But not before yanking Kamikaze's phone from his hand and punching in her number. Then another fly mama is just swaggering back and forth, displaying her body to full effect. Aii! Not fair. It was like a well choreographed musical piece. Cluck-cluck of heels. All conversation stops. Glasses pause mid-air, heads turn right (or left). Lust was so thick in the air you could cut it with a knife. Later on I stop the mama.
Hi. How are you?
Fine.
My name is 0.5 ( I am trying my damn hardest from straying my eyes to her cleavage. Ahhh the torture!).
Mine is [something or the other, can't remember]. Kamikaze introduces himself.
Those are not your real names right?

She Can't believe we are giving our real names. Why would a guy give a fake name to such a hot woman? So out come the health membership cards.
See? This here says this is my name.

She still does not believe it. National ids come out!!!! (That was a dumb thing to do!). Small talk. Hey can I have your number?
No, I don't give out my number.

Discouraging, demoralizing, proud even, but honest. Brushing aside my bruised little ego, I look at the whole thing logically and conclude that she did not click with me and probably resents the idea of me going after her. Thats cool. Saves me a lot of agony. Wish more chics could just straight out refuse to give out their number, rather than give a number, then ignore the call. Or give a fake number. Don't be polite. It had just happened minutes ago on the same table.
Hey, kwani your phone is not ringing? Cr*p!

Kamikaze tried his luck after I bowed out. Whichever deity controls romance and all that darting stuff was pissed with him I guess. Can't reject one chic and want another all in the space of one hour. So the fly woman walks off with her buddies.

Where was I? Yes. Digressed a bit there. You see I am feeling fresh now (my hungover has just run out of its term). The doc and Sam' are already gone. More pals have checked in. Moments later, P comes and sits down next to him. His face lights up like a neon sign. She moves to the dance floor - sorry, the space between tables where people dance, and starts grooving. There is such a thing as miracle healing because Kamikaze's knees, professed to suffer the effects of stumping boots, kicks and knockdowns, propel him with amazing speed from his chair to where P is dancing. He does not stop there. He pulls very smooth moves, all signs of earlier knee ailments completely gone. I am impressed. This P is quite the chic. For P Kamikaze will dance. For H, Kamikaze will get knee injuries. It is a beautiful arrangement. I try not to burst into laughter when I see the guy point to his knees and go ..."aaaahhh ai, I can't dance. I have very bad knees. You see ......"

We get plastered.

Effect: I report to work at one. I am telling myself that I will not drink again on Wednesday. I had told myself that last week, but seem to have forgotten somehow.