Friday nights, who doesn't love them? Especially when you get the chance to relive your youth in a blur of laddity and badly behaved drinking?
Well, maybe that is just me...
It was a Friday night, I had been given a free pass from the good lady and was ready to meet up with the old pack and go on a pub crawl. Which is a fine thing. We are all in our mid-forties, true, but sometimes you just have to go a little nuts.
There is an unspoken agreement among us older going out men-types. We try not to dress like wild vagabonds or like someone who fully intends to steal a horse.
This is for a number of reasons but the primary one is quite simple.
There is always that magic carrot of perhaps going to a club after the pubs close.
Yes, we might be too old for it but much like the small dog that yaps at any other dog regardless of size because it itself does not realise it is tiny, it is the same for us beer drinking gentlemen.
Before you drink your first beer you think, oh no, I am most definitely not going to be tempted to go clubbing later on.
Two beers down and you and the rest of the guys are already plotting which club you will go to and various cover stories to tell the doormen of said club about your night should they try to refuse you for being too drunk.
Which brings me in a long-winded way back to the night at hand.
Three of us guys were in the pub. We had had a few beers and were feeling slightly giddy and excited like young girls promised a pony for Christmas.
The fourth member of our party showed up, typically late. It was Old Nick.
Hey hey hey guys! Hows it shakin bacon?
We all winced. Not just at Old Nick's corny chat but at his attire.
He was wearing double denim.
A cardinal sin in anyone's book, here in Scotland it is considered a faux-pax of the highest order. It is very eighties and really not in a good way.
He had pale stonewashed blue jeans on his bottom half and a Denim jacket with a myriad of patches on his top half. Double denim.
Doesn't your house have mirrors?
I asked kindly.
Aye mate, it's got plenty. How? You fancy taking a look at yourself? Hahaha!
He responded quite forcefully.
My group of friends are no fashionistas but this was Glasgow. Old Nick in no small way was resembling a cowboy from a bad eighties movie and sadly, in Glasgow, we don't have cows. Let alone fancy dressed men to bully them with sticks and whips.
You look like a mad clown!
Guffawed one of my mates, Mr C.
Aye, or an Abba fan?
Laughed my other mate, T-Dawg.
This is not to impugn the fine Abba loving communities out there but as a group, we like heavy metal. So this was quite an insult.
Beat it, you lot.
Yelped Old Nick. He seemed visibly hurt by our ridicule so grudgingly we let it slide and only occasionally as the night progressed mentioned his denim clown outfit.
It was as the pubs were closing that we found ourselves in that predicament (again) of being just drunk enough to want to carry the night on.
In Scotland, that pretty much involves going clubbing unless you fancy trotting off to a casino to get stabbed.
We headed to the nearest Club. A place called The Shed.
As we walked the short distance I thought I would do my best by Old Nick to ensure he was allowed entry to the place. They can be quite picky with us old codgers.
Nick mate, do you want to swap jackets? I will gladly take the hit of wearing yours and looking like a buffoon just so you don't get refused entry for the double-denim nonsense...
Perhaps there had been one too many double denim jokes. Old Nick rounded on me.
I don't think there will be a problem, mate. So get stuffed.
Fair enough mate, fair enough.
We arrived at the door of the club and waited in only a small queue. Soon we were at the door for the obligatory inspection from the doormen.
Normally we get asked where we have been and how many drinks we have had and we lie bare-facedly before being grudgingly motioned inside.
Not this time though.
The biggest doorman guffawed, laughing so hard he bent over double.
The other doorman sniggered in a more subtle way.
I stepped forward.
Can we head in?
The biggest doorman straightened up.
You three can but definitely not him.
He pointed at Old Nick.
What?!? Why not? Why aren't you letting me in?
Barked Old Nick in outrage.
The big doorman paused for a few seconds before waving a hand up and down at Old Nick.
Because, mate... If I let you in wearing that getup, next week I will have to let people in wearing their pyjamas.
Old Nick sputtered in impotent rage and pleaded with them to let him in.
The doormen, however, would not change their minds and we had to carry the night on without him.
The moral of this story is plain...
Double Denim, kids. Don't do it.
What about you? Have you ever indulged in the delights of Double Denim? Were you soundly ridiculed? Do you think that it is ridiculous for a bunch of men in their forties to go clubbing?
Tell us your best tales in the comments. I will be there to listen!
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