Sunday, 19 August 2012

Ramblings of a 30-something man... When being a legend isn't a good thing

"You were an absolute legend last night," my mate Martin beams as I stagger into his bedroom the morning after a ridiculously heavy nights drinking session.

"Cheers mate," my voice crackles into action as my vocal cords struggle to contain the punishment I put my throat through the previous night. Still, despite the sensation of my pneumatic drill headache thumping against the inside of my cranium, I console myself with the knowledge that I had been a legend.

A legend is one of the highest honours a friend can bestow upon you. A legend is a person who embodies the pinnacle of all the important social aspects. Any person who is funny, reckless, original, and sensitive in the right measures is likely to be nominated a legend by his associates. A legend is a person to whose persona you aspire.

"Such a frickin' legend," Martin says again, a big grin on his face.

I thank him again for his kind words before asking him to fill in a few gaps where I have a few memory lapses. After all, if you are going to be given a legend status, you might as well find out what you did to earn your stripes.

"Where do I start?" he says sitting up in his bed. "First of all, the dance-off you had with that guy in the blue shirt was unbelievable."

Did he say dance-off?

"The bit where you took you belt off and used it as a pretend penis to slap him around the face was pure gold," Martin continued. "The guy had nothing left in response after that!"

Hmmmm, I guess that is pretty funny, although I was still a little horrified to hear that I was dancing, let alone having a dance-off. But there was more.

"Then you disappeared for about half an hour, and we eventually found you in the toilets helping the toilet attendant by informing anyone who cared to listen - no splash, no gash! Genius."

Hmmm, I'm not too sure how many 'legends' have had that honour bestowed upon them for hanging out in the men's toilets.

"When we tried to get you out of the toilet you pulled a massive strop!" he continued, now struggling to hold back his laughter. "You then got into an argument with the toilet attendant and demanded he shared his tips with you!"

This wasn't good.

"Luckily the female bouncer was on hand and she frog-marched you out of the club, and at the end of the night we found you slumped outside in the gutter," Martin said, holding his sides to stop them splitting. "I think you were even crying."

"I wasn't crying," I protest, even though I had absolutely no recollection of these events whatsoever, and if I am honest, I actually felt like crying a bit there and then.

"Like I said mate," Martin finally manages to get the words out after his bout of laughter has concluded, "you were an absolute legend."

And then it hits me.

When Lionel Messi is called a legend it is because he scores world-class goals, or when someone purrs over how much of a legend Robert De Niro is, it's because he has made about a billion cool films.

But when somebody calls Steven Scaffardi a legend, it's because he has made a complete tit of himself the night before.  


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