I must lay down, once and for all, how I first met that Capulet bint Juliet. It was not at some gay little masked ball or at either side of fish tank (I wish people would stop saying these things). Actually, we met in a grotty dubstep venue in a disreputable suburb of Verona. The reason she denies this is because she can’t remember it. And I don’t blame her! MDMA does that to people. Anyhow, we were both thirteen; I got into the club because I borrowed Mercutio’s ID, and Juliet got in because the eunuch-bouncers let any slapper in who looks old enough to down an alcopop and give a stranger a hand-shandy.
So, there we were, off our tits on pills, flailing and grinding against people from various echelons of Veronese society. E makes me piss like a bitch, so I was constantly elbowing my way to the pisser and letting rip into the porcelain. One time I stumbled accidentally (or not!) into the ladies’ bog – and there I saw her, crouched over a loo, the door of her cubicle ajar, heaving vomit into the bowl and retching like a dying basilisk. Like the good Montague gent I am (ha!), I skipped over and helped her empty out the last of her swan dinner. Then I offered to take her home; I think I said something about the dubstep being ‘proper shit’ anyway, and that I intended to crash at a mate’s house just a few blocks down from her palazzo. And so we walked. One minute I was helping her spew again into the fountain of the Piazza della Erbe, the next I was up on her balcony, balls deep in Capulet gash. Back of the net; House of Montague 1, House of Capulet 0.
On reflection, it’s not a terribly ennobling story, and it clashes somewhat with neo-classical doctrines of chivalry currently prevalent in Renaissance Italy. Perhaps I best stick with the masked ball and fish tank bollocks. Because, honestly, if the truth got out about our drug-oiled rutting, we might both have to top ourselves. Imagine!
Romeo, fair Verona, 1562.
So, there we were, off our tits on pills, flailing and grinding against people from various echelons of Veronese society. E makes me piss like a bitch, so I was constantly elbowing my way to the pisser and letting rip into the porcelain. One time I stumbled accidentally (or not!) into the ladies’ bog – and there I saw her, crouched over a loo, the door of her cubicle ajar, heaving vomit into the bowl and retching like a dying basilisk. Like the good Montague gent I am (ha!), I skipped over and helped her empty out the last of her swan dinner. Then I offered to take her home; I think I said something about the dubstep being ‘proper shit’ anyway, and that I intended to crash at a mate’s house just a few blocks down from her palazzo. And so we walked. One minute I was helping her spew again into the fountain of the Piazza della Erbe, the next I was up on her balcony, balls deep in Capulet gash. Back of the net; House of Montague 1, House of Capulet 0.
On reflection, it’s not a terribly ennobling story, and it clashes somewhat with neo-classical doctrines of chivalry currently prevalent in Renaissance Italy. Perhaps I best stick with the masked ball and fish tank bollocks. Because, honestly, if the truth got out about our drug-oiled rutting, we might both have to top ourselves. Imagine!
Romeo, fair Verona, 1562.
