The Age of the Anti Heroes

No one’s a completely good person anymore. Or at least no one in this room is. But what could be expected of a room filled with young adults? Young adulthood is the age of the antiheroes. Drinkers, druggers, profanity lovers, shakers, jumpers, bruisers, bumpers, vandals, looters, showing their hooters – I could go on all night, but I would start getting desperate for rhymes. This room is full of people my own age or there about.

I can see not far from me, someone wearing a light grey, slightly striped fedora that leans over his face to cover both of his eyes. This is either a fashion statement that I’ve missed or he’s simply embracing that his hat is oversized. There’s another fashion statement I can’t grasp standing next to our fedora friend. A girl wearing a top that reveals over 50% of her stomach, is she trying to make the most of clothes that don’t fit her anymore? Because that’s the impression I get from it. Other guests have appearances that make me glance once and then stare- long, hard and almost frightened the second time around. Among these are what seems like thousands upon thousands of people slathered in thousands upon thousands of tonnes of fake tan. Some fake tans are a lot more convincing than the others, though still not too believable. Some look almost genuine, but I can tell fake tan has been applied by the variation of shades. And of course we are in the United Kingdom- even the most convincing tan products won’t fool me, the weather around here can never encourage a tan. Meanwhile, a number of figures are wearing diluted blue jeans that reach the floor and continue a few centimetres. This is a look I actually like for some strange reason, but if these people trip over when attempting to dance later tonight they will struggle to blame anyone else but themselves.

Yes, you’ve probably read between the lines and guessed I’m at a party. An environment I’m more comfortable with than my own house. This is almost my forte, if that’s a word. In short parties are deece- as long as no one gets hurt for whatever reason, I adore, and just about contend with, the party lifestyle. A figure approaches me and starts to look less and less like a shadow as the multi-coloured lights come into contact with his person. It’s the host of the party, looking rather worbdangy in his finest partying gear. As a side note worbdangy is a slang word not even I know the meaning of, and I invented it. Finest partying gear for blokes is much less out there than females who often dress like they’re going to either a ball or an orgy. Our host is wearing a tasteful multi-coloured plaid shirt that’s painful on the eyes trousers that widen themselves at the legs and incredibly high up trainers. I’ve never seen him dressed like this before and he’ll soon tell me he won’t ever dress like it again. “Jamie Seal” he calls my name in a purposely deep voice that he is struggling to put on. We improvise a handshake that in our own minds looks really impressive but would look idiotic to anyone watching. We start a conversation

“This is a damn fine party this” I tell him, maybe sounding less genuine than I am

“Thanks man” is the supportive reply.

“Absolutely deece party”

I reply trying to strike up a conversation. I’m good friends with this bloke and usually getting us to shut up would be the challenge but somehow with multi-coloured lights flashing music that could barely be called music blaring and a sticky floor beneath us everything becomes awkward.

“I tell you this party is deece absolutely mcdoysh” I continue in the worst American I’ve ever heard anyone perform. I don’t even know why I went for this voice, did I think it’d lighten the mood?.

Another figure approaches me two seconds after this stilted chat -a thinly built, fairly short female. In five minutes the music becomes incredibly aggressive and I, like everyone else begin dancing wildly- so much more fun than I’m making it sound. The music stops- even DJ’s need to take breaks. During the break my jacket is wrestled off me by the thin female. I know what she’s trying to do, she’s willing at least, and I can’t say im not flattered but in a party in a community centre? Even I’m classier than this. “Look” I say incredibly calmly, as calm as a corpse infact. “I know you want this but im really not ready for a relationship and especially not one that begins in a community centre party” I say to apologise. She looks up (quite far up- im much taller, I don’t know how it would’ve worked anyway) clearly shocked. Somehow, I can’t tell whether she’s angry or whether her drinks been spiked. She finally says “I do not find you attractive you idiot” in a vicious wheeze. “I was trying to take your jacket off you so that I could remove that stain, you just told me I could five minutes ago”. Oh , now I know what she was saying when the music was loud, before the DJ took a break. I started dancing, she must have asked me if she could have my jacket to remove the stain from it. Because, even though I spend my life in parties no one’s asked me that and because I don’t go in for lip reading, I made an assumption.  The music was too loud and asking what she said would be pointless so I automatically thought she either asked “Are you liking the party?” or “Isn’t this music really loud?” .The answer to either one would be yes, so I said yes. Still there’s no point explaining this to her. She violently rummages in my pocket so, for a second, I think she’s had a change of heart -but no, she is looking for my phone.

To get her own back on me for thinking she fancied me, she violently slides my phone across the floor. It goes at a surprising speed considering the floor, like I said, is incredibly sticky (I’ve decided I’d rather not know why). I decide to boldly go where my phone had no decision to. Following it I start a casual jog , that turns into a sprint and slide across the entire floor to get my phone back. It’s amazing how successful I am. I slide in style. If I was actually trying to pull off a stunt like this I’d never be able to. My arms firmly hold course as from my one bent leg seeps my outstretched leg until the two meet in their correct positions- all I need now is a gun or something and I could be in die hard. “Yippee Ki yay mother” oh no I better not finish that sentence off just in case there are kids outside listening in. I turn around after getting my phone back, gradually rising from the floor in satisfaction. I turn around and find several of the other party goers sliding across the floor just like I had, some of them actually doing the move more justice than I could. It’s just hit me: they thought I was trying to start a dance craze. Fair enough, we do need a new one now that gangam style is out of date. But I didn’t think I’d be the one to start it. Not everyone on the dance floor is copying me .One bloke is alternating between two dance moves that he’s made up himself: the calm gun wielding gangster move, to the tramp in the midst of a drug reaction move, the sort of dance move that suits any music. But still with all these people sliding across the floor I can’t waste this opportunity. I bask in my glory by violently shaking both hands above my head and shouting “MACDOYSH” like I have so many times in so many other parties – though they’ve never called for it as much as this one has.

 I go to the toilets – the only place I can get decent signal. My plan: to call my friend Darren (or as he’s sometimes called “The Draughtsman”) and tell him what’s happened- he’s supposed to be here anyway. I immediately find out he isn’t showing up as a contact when I dial in the first half of his number. There’s obviously something wrong with my phone. I’ll just have to dial the whole number in. AH typical for someone so organised he never answers his phone. I have to leave a voice message, I can’t let this go unheard. “Darren” I start the voice message “Something absolutely worbdangy has just happened. I started a dance regime without even knowing. And one more thing, WHY AREN’T YOU HERE? You told him and me actually, that you would be”. I hear someone entering- they’re not even trying to be quiet, judging by the sound they make when they walk, bricks are the new shoes. I soon stand next to this person, but this isn’t my choice, he staggers towards me. “What do you think you’re playing at?” he asks in a naturally aggressive voice. I don’t know what to say so I reply “Alright mate?” In a pitch I didn’t even know I could get to. “You try to get me into trouble? Want the police onto me? Stealing my phone off me?”. I remember now ,when I slid across the room to get my phone there was another that looked incredibly similar next to it. At the time I didn’t think anything of it and I didn’t even know I’d taken this fact in. But it’s important now: I picked up his phone thinking it was mine- no wonder I couldn’t find any of my contacts. This guy I recognise now is the village nutter- can’t remember his name ,which is fine, it’s not like we’re gonna burst into friendly conversation.  He asked if I was trying to get the police onto him , I've remembered that he was already in trouble with the police from our next town up (our police don’t care) for sending people threatening messages. All he heard of my voice message was me shouting “WHY AREN’T YOU HERE?” and thought I was phoning people up and pretending to be him , sending threatening messages to get him in more trouble. Well wow this is crazy. I couldn’t write something as mental as this. I abruptly stick out my arm to give him his phone back. “I think I should have mine back too” I firmly say. Well that was a mistake wasn’t it? .He took that as insult didn’t he?. This mental case goes in for a forceful blow which I just about miss .It skims my face and it still bloody hurts. I run into a cubicle, slamming the door smack onto his face.  I didn’t want to get into a fight but now that I’m in one I don’t want to die. I can’t see his reaction to the door being slammed into his face, but I like to think of his head thrusting itself back and forth and then freezing in an awkward position like its being worked by strings. Before he thrusts the cubicle door open, possibly even taking it off his hinges, I consider reasoning with him. Maybe I could say something like “Come on mate we can be amigo-Rita’s, we can be solid-ay-pings” (yes I did come up with those). But then I think: NO I can’t say that, it’ll make things worse. When he does thrust the cubicle door open, his eyes are extremely wide. This is really saying something because they were gigantic before. Not surprising though, he’s done ridiculous amounts of drugs. But god his eyes look gigantic, the size of fists on the average person. I grab the toilet roll from beside me and jeer “BEWM TARRRNG”, throwing the toilet roll directly at his face. I’m far too confident for someone who might be dead soon. The toilet roll covers both his eyes (it’s a very wide roll) and slides down his back leaving a trail of greying whiteness across the floor. He’s irritated by this and trips over several times – eventually he becomes wrapped up in the situation- haha wrapped up I’ve gotta use that one more. By now he’s started to look like he’s been mummified terribly. He still stagers towards me (with surprising speed you wouldn’t usually see in a stagger) and directs a punch at me.  That was agonising, the fact I’m alive is a modern day miracle.  He’s nearly killed me with that punch but this is getting so interesting. Wow it’s almost fun- actually, no it isn’t almost fun it is fun. I pick up the mop that’s been waiting patiently by a cubicle door for some use. I lift it, and then forcefully make it plummet into his face. He catches it though doesn’t he? That’s ok I’m still holding the handle, which I furiously throw, using all the force in my right hand (the force is strong in this one). It hits him on the head and startles him slightly. WOW as gripping as this is getting and as fun as I find it, I have to leave now .It may not stay fun. He’s bound to recover any second and when he does he will be liable to slaughter me. I run out but then realise: I just had a fight with someone who is the size of a housing estate, leave well alone a single house. I try and do some sort of a victory dance while I'm running- doesn’t work though I just end up looking like a scarecrow who keeps getting electric shocks. Outside now and the soulless light of the diluted lamppost is helpful. At least it shows the nutters own shadow looming over. “Jamie Seal” he growls through his very few teeth. How does he know my name?. Right I'm only 19 I’ve just had a good brawl which calls for yet another MACDOYSH but I have to hide from this guy now.  My legs rattle left ,right and diagonally as I climb inside a large bin- the perfect hiding place .Not the first one I see but the first I can fit into. I stay inside, hidden from his gigantic eyes. Wow I think he’s really lost me. I think this is the perfect place to hide from him, that is until the bin starts violently shaking with the strength of 2 regular men. I realise then it’s not the nutter who’s found me- it's binmen. What excuse could I give them for being in a bin?  I violently slap the lid of the bin and I jump out .I terrify the two bin men with my shaky legged, disoriented landing AND by jumping from a bin they thought was free of living teenagers. I’m about to leave the scene until I notice that one shakes his leg like it’s supported by the most defective spring in the world.  Crimson trickles down from his nostril. When I escaped from the bin, I hit him straight in the face with the lid. It’s safe to go back. I think the nutters given up ,or he’s in a different direction looking for me. I go back to the binmen to apologise. “Sorry about that, mate” I say remorsefully. “Why were you even in there? Did a mugger put you in there or something” one of the workers enquires. “No that’s not what it is at all” I tell them. I hope they don’t expect me to tell them what really happened. If I say I accidentally took someone’s phone, gave it back then ran off when a fight broke out are they really likely to believe me? . I tell them that, they’ll think I’m lying to cover up some shady crime; it’ll get even more intense.

“Bro, bro you can tell us, we’re not gonna take advantage we’ll call the police” the second binman assures me, the one who I accidentally hit. “Lads” I assertively say “I really wasn’t put in there by a gang or anything like that” I remind them. “Come on fella” blurts out one of the workers (they don’t give up) “ I know it’s embarrassing having to admit to stuff like this but we’ll call the police for ya we’re trying to ‘elp”. I tell them time and time again that I wasn’t put there by muggers. They still don’t believe me. They still insist on calling the police.  Police in this town are incredibly harsh they actually punish victims of crime sometimes, so if they do get the police this won’t end brilliantly for me .These binmen aren’t locals, they don’t know anything about our police. I’m once again reminded bricks are the new shoes when I hear violent footsteps not far away. A figure in the near distance takes a more human form, though still not fully human. It’s the lack of full humanity that makes me realise who this is. It’s the nutter again. He’s found me – we all knew this was coming didn’t we. I should have stayed hidden in the bin. I should have accepted the idea of being thrown in the back of the refuse lorry. OK it would have been dangerous, but it sounds safe when taking a beating from a housing estate is the alternative. Oh god I’m gonna have to run off again aren’t I? .I sprint away from the nutter, faster than a speeding sugar cube (yeah I don’t know what that means, either). The two binmen are bound to be confused by my sudden sprint-off, but I’m not stopping to tell them the story. Oh god I have no clue what could happen next, they still might call the police. Well like I said before: young adulthood is indeed the age of the antiheroes. I don’t think that matters now: all that does matters now is the fact that to be honest, tonight’s actually been really fun.