Through a Glass Drunkly

I've been experimenting with booze like substances. 

Vin rouge. Vin blanc. Whiskey. Brandy. And many loud cans and garish bottles of American beer. HIC HIC HOORAY! 

Most of this drunk and disorderly conduct has been confined to one locale: 97 Estoria, a hipster dive bar in Cabbagetown, Atlanta. For some years, I'd frequented this grungy rat hole in a state of sobriety; now off the leash, and on the lash, it was time to wave bye-bye to Dr Jekyll and greet Mr Hyde.

 

Here's a few highlights from September 2017 to April 2019: 

* Getting sexually harassed by the ugliest rent boy in Cabbagetown. 

* Offered "cocaine" (baby laxative) by a gal from South London (our man made his excuses and left).  

* An elderly barfly reckoned that I was a "defrocked Catholic priest" and "convicted pedophile". Good thing I didn't mention living in Thailand for 9 years... 

* Another suspected that I was an English bad guy from America's Most Wanted and called the cops. "That's never happened here before," said a longstanding member of the staff.  

* Annoying the foxy bartenders by yelling "OI!" for a brewski; invariably followed with, "On the double-double-double! You 'orrible little barmaid you!" 

*Shouting, "Let's go and have a braaaaaaaaaaaandy at the bar with the Yanks," like Bryan Marshall's bent councilor in The Long Good Friday. 

* Doing the splits. 

* Complaining about American beer in a lardy dah voice. 

* Doing a runner on bar tabs. 

* And so on and so forth.  

The best incident at 97 Estoria involved "Hollywood Man" a second unit director called Jesse Roth, a slumming son of privilege who gets into lots of trouble (Ed. Note: remind you of anyone?) Why so many film blokes in Atlanta? The peach state has a 30% tax break and there are currently 455 film and TV shows in production in the "Hollywood of the South". And it's lucrative. Last year the state of Georgia made $9.5 billion profit off the back of this burgeoning biz.

Contextual prevarication over. Back to Hollywood Man. I'd socialized with this boozy, coke huffing, name-dropping, pussy freak on several previous occasions without incident. However, on this balmy Friday night in April 2019, I was out with two faculty members from Emory University and he was on full brat mode.

It kicked off with a routine exchange of introductions and pleasantries. Hollywood Man bragged that he was educated at Amherst, attended on a sports scholarship (water polo and ice hockey) and hailed from Orange County in California. "Oh, that went blue in the midterms," said one of the Professors' in passing. Hollywood Man snapped. "NO WAY DUDE." He turned out to be a Republican Party Reptile and bored at length (15-20 mins) on the impossibility of OC going blue. Finally, when confronted with the headlines on an iPhone, he snapped, "THAT'S FAKE NEWS DUDE." 

At this point in the narrative I was sorely tempted to launch a rabbit punch and do a runner, but, much like the pub back home in merry old England, the joint was wired up with CCTV.

Knowing Hollywood Man, I stepped up to the bar counter to change subject and order a beer. I glanced back over the shoulder. The two Professors' had left the building. Mr Roth of OC had seen them off...

Hollywood Man was complaining about his favorite subject: himself. He didn't like TV shows, preferred films but claimed a sideline: "Jesse James Bail Bonds". The aging white rich kid cruelly laughed about making a quick buck out of mass incarceration. Then the 39-year-old got bored of talking about himself and asked what I was doing. Briefly and succinctly, I mentioned a concept for a six-part TV show and doing a "look book" for Angunawela to send up the food chain (or down).  

"Angunawela," he scoffed. "What-kind-of-a-name-is-that?"

Oh. Deary. Me. Not only was Hollywood Man a Republican Party Reptile, he was a racist. Before I remonstrated, he whipped out his iPhone to look up Angunawela on IMDB. Double plus rude. I flipped. 

"You fackin' cunt," I snapped. "I ain't talking to youse no more." 

Innit. It's only 8.30 p.m. He's scared off the mild-mannered Professors' and now he was getting funny about foreign names. Mexican stand-off or handbags at dawn: I was suddenly game for a ruck. Hollywood Man was up for one n'all. 

"I'm a fighter," he yelled, "I'll-screw-you-into-the-ground." 

I almost laughed myself to death. 

"I bet you come here every night," he added. 

I interjected, "And much of the day, too." 

"You're a coward," he taunted. 

How did he know? 

Like most English people, of a certain age and distinction, I loathe and detest public scenes BUT do have a penchant for drama AND showing off. 

"Mate," I said, invoking the nonchalant air of Billy Joe Saunders, "that is the biggest load of bollocks I've ever heard. You ain't gonna do shit. This bar is covered in CCTV..."  

I pointed out cameras 1, 2 and 3 for Hollywood Man to look-and-learn.  

"...There are loads of people in 'ere n'all. Trying to have a good time. And it's the policy of this establishment to call the cops if customers' assault one another. Listen. Just don't fucking talk to me, you mug. You fuckin' no-good-cunt. Just pay your bill and fuck off." 

 

The whole pub was now watching. But just like Gene Barry in The Adventurer: "I don't yield to bullies". 

A barmaid approached with orders to clam up. I pointed out that he was the troublemaker.  

"I know he's a troublemaker," she said under her breath. 

In concert with the management. For once. Astounding. 

Hollywood Man paid his bill and exited whispering, "See you on the flip side." 

Noise. I don't like noise. (Ed. Note: you hypocrite).

I followed the self-styled "Fighter" out of the bar...  

Hollywood Man: Karate Black Belt 

Far from the prying eye of the CCTV, I was gonna give him a ten-out-of-ten thumping in the car park. 

One of the foxy barmaids shouted: "ALEXANDER!"

Fortunately, Hollywood Man had ducked into a waiting Uber and was off to the next watering hole. I re-entered the saloon and got roundly told off by various barmaids for being loud and exuberant. True to form I did manage to pull a Liverpool style runner on the bar tab. 

 

What is the moral of this tawdry tale? There isn't one. But if you are a Brit causing trouble overseas, take a tip from Somerset Maugham's short story The Letter and try not to rile the natives. Liverpool. London. Bangkok. Hong Kong. New York. And now Atlanta. The world is full of dangerous pubs. And dangerous drinkers. 

Status update: 99 days no booze. Hip-hip-hooray! Champagne to celebrate? No. What about another series of booze soaked adventures? Perhaps not.