Keep Your Rockstar Hair Out of My Cheap White Wine!

“Why are you fidgeting?” she whispers.

“I’m not fidgeting!” I whisper back.

“Do you need the toilet?” she whispers again.

“No, I don’t need the toilet!” I squeak indignantly.

I’m not three years old, I think, for the second time that evening.

Patience, please. I haven’t told you about the first time yet.

It’s Thursday night. We’re in the Mandela Hall at Queen’s University, Belfast to see British poet Brian Bilston who specialises in funny, informal verse.

We’re twenty minutes into the show. Bilston is excellent, the bar is charging discounted student prices, and there’s a good vibe from the audience.

But I’ve become distracted.

Pre-planned Move

We arrived half an hour ago. It’s unreserved seating in this venue, so in a pre-planned move perfected over the years, my wife, She Who Books Things, goes to find seats while I veer off to get the drinks.

A tall, young guy is ahead of me in the queue. With his shoulder-length curly hair, he’s a dead ringer for Led Zeppelin’s Robert Plant in his younger days. People are sneaking looks at him.

Either they’re intrigued by his distinctive hair or they’re hoping he’ll start singing ‘Stairway to Heaven’.

“Do you want lids on those?” the barman asks, setting two drinks in front of me. “You could spill them very easily if someone bumps you.”

“No, I’m good, thanks,” I reply.

I can carry two plastic cups across a room without spilling their contents. I’m not three years old, I think, for the first time that evening.

There you go. Chronology restored

As planned, She Who Books Things has bagged two seats at the end of the row. That makes getting out easier if I have to sneak out to the toilets. Okay, when I have to sneak out.

That’s important in this venue where there’s very little room between the rows of seats.

The Distraction

As chance would have it, Robert Plant is sitting directly in front of me. I’ll struggle to see over the top of his big hairy head but that’s alright. Being sat at the end of the row means I can lean into the aisle to see the stage.

Brian Bilston comes on and we’re up and running. I’m comfortable enough, leaning slightly to my right with the hand holding my drink resting on my leg.

Fifteen minutes in, the distraction begins.

Robert is enjoying the show hugely. He greets every joke and funny line with a huge laugh, throwing his head back as he does so.

At that point, his long hair dangles perilously close to my white wine given the proximity of the seats. That’s bad enough. Who wants someone else’s hair in their drink?

But much worse is the need he feels to rearrange his curly locks after every shake of the head.

Golf Balls

Each time, he raises a hand and smoothes his hair back into position. That’s the hair dangling just above my cup, remember.

I’m visualising dandruff flakes the size of golf balls falling off his head and settling in my drink. I’m not feeling a Whole Lotta Love for Robert just now.

I pull my hand back and cover the plastic cup with my free hand. Just to be sure, I swivel my legs so that my feet are in the aisle. Then I rest my cup on the leg furthest from Robert.

It’s at this point that She Who Books Things notices me moving about.

I can’t explain while the show’s still going on.

I can’t tell her it’s to stop my white wine from getting whiter and crunchier than I like it.

Interval

The interval arrives. I shoot out of my seat to win the race to the toilets. I dump what remains of my white wine and dandruff mixer in the bin en route.

I’m just finishing washing my hands when my phone vibrates. I’m checking the message as I leave the toilets and join the line of people slowly filing past.

I’m shuffling along for at least a minute before someone taps me on the shoulder.

“I think you might be in the wrong queue, love,” a blonde woman tells me. I look up and see that this line of people is not, as I thought, heading back to the hall, but moving into the women’s toilets.

I let out a yelp like I’ve been touched by an electric cattle prod and head quickly down the corridor towards the hall.

I make my way to the bar. I feel entitled. I only drank about half my first wine before the snowstorm started. And She Who Books Things will want another.

“Do you want lids for those?” the same barman asks.

“Yes, please,” I say.

I’m not worried about spillage, but the lid should keep the dandruff out of my drink during the second half.

If they served wine in sippy cups, I’d take one of those.

But they don’t, unfortunately.

I’m not three years old, after all.