The All-Night Bender

The All-Night Bender

After watching Ingrid disappear into the hot African night with the bartender, Large Lad sat slumped on his stool, fuming and sweating under the whirring ceiling fan. The bar was quiet, reggae humming from the battered old speakers, but Large Lad wasn’t ready to go back to his budget guesthouse and mouldy pillow just yet.

He slammed his fist down on the counter. “Another drink!” he barked at the young assistant barman who had been wiping tables in silence all evening.

“What you want, boss?” the assistant asked warily.

“Everything.”

And so it began.

First came the tequila shots, lined up like soldiers ready for war. Large Lad downed them in quick succession, each one burning his throat and lighting a fire in his bloated belly.

Next came the local beers, ice-cold and crisp, served in heavy brown bottles. He guzzled them, belching so loudly the few remaining patrons glanced over with disgust.

“Play some music!” he shouted. The assistant barman fumbled with the Bluetooth speaker until Afrobeat exploded through the bar, pulsing bass vibrating the sticky wooden floors.

Large Lad stumbled to his feet, arms swaying like great pork hocks in the breeze. He stomped out onto the makeshift dancefloor, sweat spraying from his forehead as he tried to move in rhythm. His gut wobbled dangerously with each attempted body roll, his t-shirt darkened with sweat down the back.

Within half an hour, a small crowd of locals and backpackers gathered around to watch him. They clapped and laughed, filming on their phones as Large Lad attempted a twerk so aggressive it nearly threw out his lower spine. Undeterred, he grabbed a passing tourist – a tall Dutch girl with dreadlocks – and pulled her into his dance, grinding against her awkwardly until she peeled away in giggles.

“Bring me rum!” he roared. And they did.

Dark rum, white rum, spiced rum – bottles upon bottles appeared, poured into giant plastic cups. Large Lad downed them all, his tongue thick and his head spinning with a delicious numbness.

As midnight turned into 2am, the bar turned wild. The young assistant barman called his friends, who called their friends, and soon the place was packed with people. The tiny dancefloor heaved with bodies, music thumped so loud the bar windows rattled in their frames, and sweat dripped from the ceiling like tropical rain.

Large Lad found himself in the middle of it all, shirtless now, belly glistening under the coloured disco lights, arms raised in drunken glory. He roared the lyrics to every song, even though he didn’t know the words, his accent turning them into a slurry of nonsense.

Shots were poured down his throat by strangers. Women slapped his chest and squealed. Men clapped him on the back. For a brief, shining moment, Large Lad felt like a king.

At 4am, the bartender returned, Ingrid clinging to his arm, her hair tousled, lips swollen, dress slightly askew. They stood in the doorway, watching Large Lad twirl around, drunk as a skunk, sweat dripping off his belly onto the dancefloor.

The bartender laughed, deep and warm. “That lad’s gonna be dead by sunrise.”

Ingrid giggled, nestling into his chest. “Let him enjoy himself. Everyone deserves a little fun.”

And as Large Lad collapsed back onto his stool, chest heaving, eyes half-closed with exhaustion and booze, he raised his cup high towards them.

“To Africa!” he slurred. “The land… of drink… and beautiful women!”

Then his head slumped forward onto the bar top, snores rattling his loose teeth as the party raged on around him until dawn.

Because that’s what Africa does to a man like Large Lad – it chews him up, spits him out, and sends him home with stories so wild, no one back home will ever believe them.

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