On Friday night I discovered what it was like to party in Ayr. I’ll start from the beginning...
We had a nice dinner – on the veranda, relaxed and with a couple of glasses of wine. This was followed by music and the ubiquitous tossing of outfits around the room – girls having fun. By 11:30 we ventured down the stairs and click-clacked in our heels towards the car – en-route surprising the remaining dinner party members with our choice of attire.
Were we really going out in Ayr? Dressed like that? Yes, and we won’t need jerseys, we’ll be inside where it’s warm! (And we’ll just conveniently forget the freezing dash back to the car at the end of the evening!)
Waving good-bye we ventured forth into the night.
To say some of the characters were less than salubrious would have been an understatement... the over-inebriated woman in the tight black dress with on-show pink bra could have been a walking advert for the AA – if she could walk.
On arrival at the club we headed towards the bar – an age-old tradition that never fails – Dutch courage. ‘No, we don’t do Champagne by the glass, but those gentlemen over there would like to buy you girls a drink’ – ‘ok, they’re welcome to, I just need to decide what I feel like... I’ll have a G&T instead please... and a slice of lemon?’ ‘No, sorry, no lemon.’ ‘Girls this drink is on us.’ ‘Yes, we got that bit, thanks.’
Does a drink mean true-love? No, but I’ll thank you and you can use that chance – that brief exchange of words to capture my attention and imagination. Captivate me with your words and cunning wit, not lecherous, wondering hands and eyes. But I’m diverted. These ‘gentlemen’ seemed to be of the opinion that a bought drink (probably costing somewhere in the region of maybe £2???) deserved utter gratitude and were very keen for us to be exceedingly grateful.
We said thanks and moved on. They followed, hunters narrowing in on their prey. They were Dutch they explained, driving around the country – good for them. I’m usually always keen to chat to someone and am not above making conversational effort... I come from South Africa I said, and can speak a bit of Afrikaans, very similar to Dutch. My conversational partner replied but most of what he said was drowned out by the music and the rest I forgot as I was overpowered by the rank stench of cigarettes that his long hair was wafting.
At my profession that I couldn’t understand a word he was saying he changed topics. ‘We were outside, thinking there were no nice looking girls in Ayr, when we saw the two of you walk inside & thought actually there are nice girls in Ayr, but you girls aren’t even from Ayr’ (please read again with a Dutch accent) ‘oh’ I responded, ‘that’s nice.’ This obviously wasn’t the reply he had been hoping for because the next line that came out his mouth was ‘I just paid you a compliment and that’s all you can say?’
Needless to say the conversation ended there. The next male approach came from the dance floor replete with breast-grabbing-hand-actions interspersed often with the crotch-clutch. Although energetic he was lacking in something... ?
This was followed by ‘hi, I’m X and this is my brother Y.’ It turned out that Y wasn’t a bit slow (as I’d first thought) he’d fast downed most of the beer in the bar, and was later escorted from the premises.
But don’t let what I’ve told you so far put you off – the locals also have some wonderful advice... In the bathroom, having stepped out of the cubicle I was confronted by my slightly unruly head of hair. ‘Don’t worry, I have the same problem’ the blonde said ‘so I just let my hair go curly and put some gel in it [read: 2 – 3 tubes]. In fact when I wake up in the morning it looks exactly the same’ – Really? How odd – somehow I didn’t think suggesting a different brand would solve her problem – she didn’t have a problem, she had a solution!
What this dance-floor held was an assortment of the species, monitored closely by the arm-band wearing bouncers, unique in their attire, proud of their moves, eager to strut their stuff – but definitely not true love.