Betting Man

I have been bet upon. Like a pony, or a dare. It is really quite humiliating. And headache inducing.

Last night was the night of the damned, aka “The Brentifier”, aka the office summer party. I woke up this morning and my pillow, not to mention my hair, skull, teeth and brain ached. It doesn’t take a genius to figure that this is the probable result of sticking fifteen people under the age of thirty-five in a flat with nothing but a few flimsy canapées to protect them from the onslaught of the open bar. Just add music, and you have a holy mess.

Last nights party was a bit more on the edge, a bit more dancing on Titanic even than usual. We came straight to it from watching a debate on a newly proposed law, that will give the Swedish governement the right to scan all communication that crosses our borders to check if were plotting to bomb something.

This is not only a terrible breach of integrity, but also a blatant display of stupidity. I think it is mostly the complete and utter inadequacy of the measures, and the complete and utter unlikelihood of actually catching anyone worth catching, that has me up in arms. As this story will show, being up in arms can have terrible, terrible consequences when paired with liquor. 

The others were happy to forget about the damn thing and go on dancing. But as the night went on and the Margarita’s went down, I got more and more incensed about this new legislation. While the others were clinking glasses and snogging inappropriate people (will tell more later), I wanted to talk about freedom and integrity and each persons solemn duty to stop the madness. It was fun, waving pitchers about in great gestures and saving the world, as it were, fag in hand.

And this is were things went terribly, horribly wrong. A “friend” of mine decided – I guess in order to shut me up – decided to put his money where my mouth was. He organised a little bet, on weather I, so justly alight with the fires of holy fury, would do something about it. Namely, brave my horror of large crowds of chanting people, and join the next mornings rally against the legislation.

At three o clock in the morning, happily dancing away to St Elmos fire, I promised that I would be there, dressed in white, and that “this is the time where we have to do what our grandparents, no I mean grandchildren, anyway, this is our war”. I think I actually even mentioned Custers last stand. 

This morning, however, I was in no mood, no mood whatsoever, to stand out in the could shouting at my elected representatives to get their acts together. I was in a mood to stay under the duvet and eat things. In fact, I may still have been drunk, but a sobbing, heavy lidded, queasy drunk: not the drunk that takes on the folly of our modern times.

I bravely stuck to plan though, clad myself in white, tone on tone with my pasty skin, donned my sunglasses and made my way to the sight of the rally. It was only when I got there, that I realised it was all a set-up. I was there. Large groups of irate teens were there. A smattering of crazies were there. But my colleagues were all home, snug in bed. I shouted a few half hearted slogans and then scurried of to the office and the coffee-brewer.

… later, they ambled into the office after lunch, smirking at my lonely self: defeated by ballot, green at the gills, and a newly anointed contributor to the wisdom of crowds.