Willya Meet Me Friend?
Lately I’ve been reminded by a few people of this incredible method of seduction.
Where I’m from, “meeting” was the term for locking lips with some young ‘wan and sloshing your tongue around in her gob. Other people may know this as “shifting”, “getting the wear”, or the very rare one, “kissing”.
“Meeting” is a difficult one, as it can be mixed up with an innocent rendezvous, but such is life.
This all happened at the local disco. There was either the ‘No-name’, but I was more of a fan of the one held at the GAA club.
You might hear about the disco while midway through a game of Snake on your cool new Nokia 3210. That was before you could go through the walls. A text saying “Gaa’s on 2nite. U goin?”
And that was it.
You’d ask your Mam for a lift later on. She’d agree only on the condition that you ate all your dinner later.
A clean t-shirt was all you needed. Football jerseys were acceptable. If you really wanted to look dapper you could throw on a Ben Sherman shirt. Usually short sleeves though.
Cream tracksuit bottoms.
The clean runners that you usually only wear to mass.
Half a tub of Brylcreem in your hair. A heavy spray of Lynx.
Get in the car, listen to your Mam telling you to be good. Arrive, get out of the car while saying your embarrassed goodbye and hoping she drives away as soon as possible.
See your friends in the queue.
“Alright?”
“See yer man in the jeans over there? State of him. In his jeans.”
“The state.”
“They new runners?”
“Yeah, got them off me Ma for Christmas.”
This chat continued ’til you got in.
Then the total madness begun.
Flashing lights.
Bangin’ choons.
Smoke machines.
Cups of 7up, Coke and Fanta to beat the band.
For a while you’d just stand with your mates but then you’d start sort of dancing. It was more standing on the dancefloor, moving a little bit, trying to slyly see what other people were doing with their bodies, and seeing if you could do it too.
You were fairly safe with the “big fish, small fish, cardboard box” move though. Fred Astaire shit right there.
Then it was ‘meeting’ time.
The first ‘meet’ of the night was a big deal. Once two people had taken the plunge to be first, it was fair game.
Some girls used to play ‘Beat the Slapper’, which was a challenge to see who could meet the most boys. I haven’t gotten a chance to read the official rules yet but I don’t think there were too many. I don’t think it’ll be in the Olympics any time soon anyway.
If you saw a girl you wanted to meet, there were simple steps to make this happen.
Grab a mate, point out the girl to him, and tell him to ask her if she wants to meet you.
As he walked over, you waited, knowing you were about to find out how attractive you were. The best way to deal with this was to talk to another friend and try to make jokes and be laughing.
There was some sort of pre-pubescent logic that told you that if you were laughing with a friend you’d probably look cool and this would increase your chances.
You’d try watch out of the corner of your eye. See them talk, see her look over. Then he’d either stroll back with a grin, or walk in a completely different direction. This would sometimes be followed by you receiving a text from him “She said maybe later”.
That meant no.
Not to worry. Go buy a packet of Tayto crisps and a cup of orange and move on.
Seeing people arrange this successfully was weird. She’d look over, nod her head in a way that just said “Yeah go on then”, and they’d walk off to a corner somewhere.
Being asked to meet someone was very exciting. You knew it was coming as soon as you felt a stranger prodding you.
“Willya meet me friend?”
“Where?”
“Over there, in the black, with the hoopy earrings.”
And there she’d be. All shy and nervous. Shuffling her feet uncomfortably.
Girls didn’t do the brilliant “pretending to joke with your mates” technique. Fools.
I was once asked to meet a girl, and when I looked over she was just sitting there on her own, looking right back at me, looking really pissed off. She really did look very angry. And very older than me. This intimidated young naive Mark. So it was a no.
When you did start meeting a girl, there were several worries. Your mates could start fucking it all up. Whether they’d start pulling her hair, pressing your hands aggressively into her arse, or jabbing you, it was off-putting. Often you also had to conceal an erection. At that age, a whiff of a girl’s hair could set you off. So having a girl chucking some saliva in your mouth was tough to handle. Especially in tracksuit bottoms and on a major fizzy drink buzz.
But the very worst was if a meet was separated by one of the chaperone people. You could see guilt on the faces of all parties involved. Often at the GAA discos, the chaperone people were folk that were involved with the club. Many disco-goers played for the club. So there was a chance that a friend of your parents’ could catch you at it. A friend of mine once had to be strategic about where he did his meeting, because one of the people supervising worked with his Dad.
So there you’d be, gettin’ jiggy with it.
Feeling pretty horny.
But the highlight was when Mark McCabe came on. Maniac 2000. You knew the night was nearly done when this bad boy came on.
Then it was all over.
You’d leave, with your ears feeling all funny. Get in the car, usually a few of you would get a lift home with someone’s mother or father.
I remember once I was getting a lift with one girl’s mother. There was a few of us in there. Before we got in the car, the girl explained to us not to tell the mother anything in much detail, before uttering the immortal line “And remember, we didn’t do any tonguey things“.
Also, once a girl was texting me, and whenever she meant to say “meet”, she spelled it “meat”. There’s something so terribly wrong about that word as a verb. Like you’d be throwing a slab of beef at each other on the dancefloor.
How times have changed anyway.
Now, instead of getting a mate to set you up, we just let our new friend, alcohol, do the talking.
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