Free Drinks! Mint Juleps at the Serpentine Gallery

Fact: In the 1920's Little People were only permitted to drink Mint Juleps in the US South.

My friend Nigel gets invited to a lot of parties. Never twice by the same person though. He has a tendency to abuse the free alcohol like an American kid at a chicken nugget buffet.

What usually happens is that he ends up shouting at somebody’s auntie then falls face first through a glass table whilst in mid soliloquy. He remembers nothing but has the scars to prove it.

He was invited to a gallery opening at the Serpentine in Hyde Park, some pretentious this or that, but often there is free booze. He was standing, well swaying, listening to a pretty little Oxbridge undergrad prattle on about the meaning of life and death. He politely nodded while fingering his ironic Tom Selleck moustache; drinking the only beverage available, free Mint Juleps, in order to get through this nightmare of a conversation. 

Nigel was beginning to lose interest in the conversation and wanted to have fun. This is always the dangerous moment where he shifts from an intelligent hipster into something much darker. I believe it’s called Oliver Reed Syndrome and if’s not, it bloody well should be!

“You're a writer I hear?” the Oxbridge girl asked, adjusting her thick black framed glasses.

“Oh, do not believe everything you hear my dear,” he said.

“I’m sorry, I thought you said that you were earlier.”

“Worry not, it happens all the time. What I said was that I am a biter.”

“I’m sorry?” she said, looking worried now.

“Sorry, I have a cold, yes I am a writer.”

She said nothing and let the last exchange pass as if it were a fart in a lift. It’s there, everybody knows it, but you say nothing.

"SO what do you think", she asked.

"Pardon me?"

"What do you want written on you're tombstone?"

Nigel had previously not been listening to the conversation between the douche class. He had been trying to figure out how many Mint Juleps it would take for him to be so drunk that the pretentious installation they were all pretending to be there for would actually become interesting."What's with all the ladders?" he said to me later.

The pretty little Oxbridge girl probably wanted him to say something witty and urbane, like on Dawson’s Creek. Or maybe something playfully cheeky like,

“See. I told you I was ill!”
"Oh you!" They would proclaim. "Absolutely top drawer that one Nige!"

But he didn't do that. He has a hard time fitting in at the best of times and after fifteen minty cocktails, he would not even attempt to.

He calmly said, and without hesitation,

“In place of a tombstone I would like a television connected to a CCTV camera in my casket. That way, people can pop round anytime they want to and watch me decompose. Wouldn’t that be lovely? Bugs eating my eyes, worms nibbling at my testicles. Of course I would be completely naked, that would be good wouldn't it!” he said, nudging a skinny tweed jacket wearing emo with black plastic framed glasses. Nobody laughed. Nobody took it as a joke. I wonder if he was joking really? Maybe he was just trying to get a rise out of the painfully hip/posh. Maybe he is seriously mentally ill? Nobody knows for sure. I thought it was funny.

In conclusion, Nigel is a moron. That much is certain. He is selfish and stupid, yet clever and insane. Nigel also shagged that pretty little Oxbridge girl not two hours later. So, there must be some method to his madness. Or maybe she thought it would be ironic?