Windy City Slam

A few years ago, I read a book called 'American Psycho' by Brett Easton Ellis. It was a story that I knew, and I enjoy it's motives. 'American Psycho' is narrated by it's lead character, Pat Bateman.

On Friday night, I met Pat Bateman.

No shit.

I met Pat.

Don't believe me? Take a fucking look. And keep reading.




I met Pat in a pub called Kasey's Tavern. It is located on the street that Al Capone was marched down when being led to jail. Cool. Dave and I were stood at the bar, waiting for a drink, when Pat sparked up a conversation. Pat talks loudly, about himself, about his bullshit job in the city, about all the women he fucks and about how we (Dave and I) needed him to elevate our evening. What a cunt.

I leant across the condiments table and slowly applied a pinch of salt during Pat's ramblings. He told me he had just donated 50,000 dollars to Obama and his campaign. Pat told me he would like to experience the glory of world war three, standing in the trenches side by side with his anglo-american brothers. I asked Pat if he was serious and called him a fucking idiot when he confirmed this conviction. Pat told us if we wanted sex, he was our man. Pat knew all the hookers. I told Pat that we were two Englishmen in an American bar, and that the last thing we needed were hookers. Jesus christ.


I asked Pat if he liked clubbing. Pat said he didn't. He told me if I wanted a party, I should come back to his place.

"We got people there now man. Champagne. Girls. Coke. Whatever you want!" He screamed at me, whilst flexing his bicep at the same time as running his fingers through his mid-thirties, gel drowned, jock quiff. Pat was doing my fucking head in, but inside I knew it had to continue. So we went to Pat's place.


An apartment block, like every other bullshit apartment block. Plywood floors, white walls, cheap kitchenette and the most disgustingly framed print of Picasso's 'Guernica'. Pat really was turning out to be the next level prick I thought he was.


Oh, and nobody was there. Just Me, Dave, Pat and his fat little friend 'Jake'. Jake had been sat there alone, drinking champagne, listening to the Eurythmics. The fucking Eurythmics!! I'm glad it wasn't Huey Lewis and the news, that would have split my brain.

I opened the window and began smoking. Pat told me to lean out and smoke.

"Why? So you can push me out, then rape Dave?" was my reply. Pat laughed, and then asked me if I liked to wrestle. Wrestle? Me? This guy is fucking priceless. I said "No, I don't like to bloody wrestle. I like to drink champagne and smoke cigarettes. Leave me alone Pat" Pat got angry and told me to stop calling him Pat, I laughed and said I couldn't help it. Then this happened:




Pat ripped his shirt off and screamed at me.

"Me and you! Let's fucking wrestle Brit boy!"

What

A

Fucking

Child.


As the photo shows, I attempted to calm Pat down, but I was laughing far too much. I think when you do this, it's known as 'taking the piss'. Pat grabbed me and tried to throw me down. Now, I'm no Hulk Hogan, but I played Rugby a bit. I got down low and drove Pat's greasy little body across the hallway and into the wall. I told him I don't like wrestling and that he should leave me alone. I felt good. Pat felt weak. My jovial attitude, meant that there was no hostility hanging in the air, which is good, because Pat's a creep bastard at the best of times. I decided to toast my wrestle victory with drunken rendition of the Last Post.

When I am drunk and play the Trumpet, whilst being hugged by a drunk Dave, I look like this.





I started to get bored of Pat and his two-bit chump mate, and Dave was preoccupied with a female on the phone. I decided to leave. Dave did too. Pat and Jake followed us outside and asked where we were going.

"I need to get some crack real soon. I'm getting itchy" I candidly told Pat.

"Oh, I don't know about that man." He replied.

"Yeah, I thought as much. I said. Still, keep in touch man yeah?"

I turned around and realised Dave had disappeared. As had Jake. Pat freaked out, he didn't have his wallet or keys on him, and so, couldn't get back into the building.

"This is a fucking setup man!" He shouted at me, spittle flying past my hair.

"You two have orchestrated this!" He added, grabbing my shoulder.

"Are you out of you're fucking mind?! I wouldn't want you're fucking wallet" I replied, realising that the earlier crack comment, hadn't given weight to my innocence.

I started walking towards Dave's flat. Pat followed. Pat tried to frisk me, so I pushed him into a snow mound and looked at him menacingly. It didn't really work. Pat followed me all the way to the college. Once we were in there, I tried to get to Dave's flat, but had to wait for his room mate to get me. As soon as I got through the glass doors I turned around and waved at Pat, leaving him crying in the snow, that he had nowhere to go. I couldn't give a shit, I'm warm in bed, I'll never see him again, and I'm just glad he didn't put an axe through my skull.

Pat Bateman. What a loon.


That was Friday.




We woke up on Saturday, got dressed and went to "Yolk!" for breakfast. Yolk! employs only beautiful girls. Thanks Yolk! I ate a hollowed out pineapple, stuffed with yoghurt, granola, pineapple and melon. Yummy fucking yum yum.

I could have stayed there all day, my heart quivering everytime one of those skirts swept past. Yolk! Should be a role model for all aspiring cafeterias. Hooray for Yolk!

After feeding, we walked around Chicago and I saw a tower that is big, and lots of mixed architectures. Interesting.

As night fell, we bought beer and began to drink. We drank with Dave's college buddies. They are fun, and I share the same humour with some of them.

By about ten, Dave and I decided to hit the streets. The wind blasted my face, and I kicked blocks of ice down the road. No matter how old I get, I will always get happy at trudging through snow and kicking ice. We went to a bar and drank Ale, it tasted sweet and it smelt like London Pride. I closed my eyes and burped loudly. I asked someone where the best nightlife is in Chicago. They told me Bucktown is a great place. So we jumped in a cab.


"Where's the best bars here sir?" I ask the cabbie.

"I don't know. I don't like bars"

"Oh"


We hopped out into a main street. A street full of bars. We ducked into a Tequila bar and ordered Patron XO. If you don't know XO, then try it. If you don't like Tequila, try Patron XO. Patron XO is a beautiful drink, with the consistency of honey and the flavour of coffee. I.fucking.love.it.

We ducked outside for a cigarette. We spoke to beautiful people, all with an artistic edge. I was glad we were in Bucktown. I sucked on a wet cigarette for a few minutes, until disturbed by a heavy din.

We turned the corner to see a big group of people, in the middle of the street,and what appeared to be one man. Getting the shit kicked out of him. Traffic stopped and we all stared. I'm glad two girls were kind enough to drag his fat ass onto the pavement. He was in a bad way.



As all this was finishing up, I noticed a cute little nymph, in the rain, dressed only in her underwear. I couldn't believe my fucking eyes.

"You from the party?" She said

"Yeah, I was just out here smoking" I replied, not knowing what the party was.

"Well, get back inside. Before the cops get here"

I grabbed Dave and we went through a small doorway right next door to the tequila bar. We ascended some stairs and stumbled onto a large, large electro party. If you are interested in seeing who was putting on this, naughty shindig. check www.myspace.com/theplayhaus

I started dancing and listening to a loud mash of all things achingly hip in the underground world at this present time. I learned that the reason why my little nymph hostess was wearing only her underwear, was because all girls affiliated with "haus party" or the "play haus" had to wear just briefs and bras. Yes yes.

I have one photo which, as usual does the exploit no fucking justice.




I spoke to hipsters, and I felt like I was back in Brooklyn. The Music was very well presented, even if the dj's did look a little like a reinvented 'Bros', I don't dig guys in wife beaters. With ear jewellery. And shaved heads. It's a bit gay.


We stayed for a good while, until we realised we hadn't had a drink in a couple of hours. We walked up through Bucktown and saw another fight in the road. I tried filming this one on the camera, but one of the men involved ran towards me and slapped me sayin "don't you go puttin' none of that shit on youtube, y'hear?"
I gulped and complied with his request. Why? Because I'm not a fucking idiot, and he was one scary motherfucker.


We decided to hail a cab and go back downtown. I opened the door and was about to get in, when a group of five giggling American girls got out.

"Pardon me" I said, as I gave them room to get out of the car.

"No way! Are you getting in this cab now? ....... And you're English?!" A dark haired cutesy asked.

"Yes and yes" I replied

"Sure you can't come for a drink with us first?" She replied.

I am pretty sure at that moment I looked up to the sky and saw God winking at me.

"One drink won't hurt" Dave and I agreed.



We got home at sunrise. Small talk and flirting can be a lengthy process. One that almost any man will devote himself to, right?