I spent a large part of the long weekend listening to drunken idiots. I assume they were drunk. I would be concerned if they weren’t. No one is that inconsiderate when they are sober. Or are they?
The idiots were somewhere across the gully from our house. We couldn’t see them but we could hear them roaring.
Drunken idiots often roar, kind of like unattractive lions or bears with tummy aches. Drunken roaring is the young man’s mating call. It is the much less sophisticated version of peacock feathers.
As a mating call I bet the drunken roar is pretty useless. We could make an interesting nature documentary about it, perhaps with David Attenborough as the narrator.
“Summer. The heat of the day. A young human male has just opened his fourth RTD. He puffs out his chest and emits a loud roar. The females giggle, which he interprets as encouragement. The male assumes himself to be the most impressive specimen on display. This is a delusion, fed by the alcohol.”
For some reason drunken roaring is usually fuelled with F-bombs. I am quite fond of the F-bomb under considered circumstances. But not when it is being broadcast across the neighbourhood.
What is it with drunken idiots and their F-bombs? I will be completely unsurprised if one day science discovers that alcohol contains special enzymes that force your mouth into the shapes of swear words.
As I get older I find myself increasingly grumpy at the inconsiderate volume of drunkenness. I fear I am going to become a curmudgeonly old man who huffs around waving his walking stick at anyone trying to have a bit of alcoholic fun. “Quiet please, I’m aging over here.”
There is beer in my fridge and scotch in my cupboard, so I have no problem with alcohol or with those who are able to enjoy it without spilling their integrity all over the place. It is when the roaring invades my family space that I start to simmer and stew, whether it is daytime, evening, or late into the annoying night.
I feel like I should give the noise-makers a break because, hey, they’re young and they’re having a good time. But really? Why should being drunk give you licence to yell obscenities into the street?
I remember the blissful self-absorption of my early 20s. It was a wonderful time when I suddenly realised there were no grown-ups around to tell me what to do.
Ah, the invincible 20s, that golden age of youth when you don’t have to live for anyone but yourself. You are oblivious to the pressures of families and mortgages. You turn up empty-handed to people’s homes and think you are doing them a favour by being their guest.
The world exists solely for your personal entertainment. If a fence is in your way you climb it. If you want to party, you party. Consequences are for old people.
In my early 20s I flatted in a large villa with five other guys. Our cars were parked all over the unkempt lawn. We took no pride or ownership over the house we rented. It was our grubby student palace and none of us thought to care beyond the state of our own bedrooms. When my mum came to visit she refused to use the bathroom because no one had cleaned it for several months.
The neighbours must have cheered when we finally left. “They’re essentially good kids,” they would have assured themselves, “but they were not a good fit for this street.”
Young idiots grow up, eventually. I just wish some of the drunker ones would be a bit less noisy about it.
First published in Bay of Plenty Times 30 January 2015. Reprofarkingduced with permission faark yeaaarrrh!