Underestimating the complications of social gatherings is something scientists often do, take e.g. the story of the great Feynman (Nobel Prize winner) learning his limitations and the extent of his own social ignorance when attempting to 'do Vegas' many years ago. Being approx. a milli-Feynman intellectually, I therefore have to be even more circumspect. Especially since my circumstances have meant that I only recently have begun 'going-out' again. Its odd to have to learn how to 'enjoy yourself', but that's the way it is - the Night is of many subcultures, each with its own rules and agenda. But its never stated explicitly, one must learn, and act properly without being told, to be accepted.

One must consider the objective: drinking - heavy or light, dancing - yes or no, music - type, dress codes, kind of crowd, pub or club, or pub-club, girls - to look at or copping off. Its tricky. The addition constraint - or ?freedom, some would say, of being a single male out solo, brings extra considerations: can't go to couple-places, can't go to half-full places, need it to be either empty or absolutely bursting, and don't wander accidentally into any gay enclaves - pumpin' house, No2 cuts and t-shirts tighter than a 9 year old Boys Brigader and you've took a wrong un.

But while my mind was churning over this difficult optimisation problem, my body slipped on my leather jacket and walked out the door. Up the Cowgate for a wander. I had settled on a club night at the Student Union as the ultimate objective - maybe I would see some of the groovier members of my course up there too, and though undergrads are a pain, the beer is much cheaper than anywhere else. At least one must do it once, for the curiosity value. But first a couple of looseners.

First stop was to be the 3 Sisters, but as always late of Friday, there was the massive queue to get in. Walk on by. Tiny toilets anyway (- 'must have been designed by a chick!', as Big Kev once said). Next stop the Grassmarket, first stop Biddy Mulligans.

Biddys is always bursting, yet you always get in. The bouncers look menacing but never seem stroppy. The queue to get served is always long, but you never have to wait for long. The music's loud, but you can still hear what people are saying. Its Irish - to be sure - but not oirish. A good choice. I went in, ordered a Guinness, and sank it quickly, just to take the edge off any residual neuroticism. I ordered another - pointing at the tap, of the same beverage I had just drank, to the same barmaid who had served me before. She then asked me what I wanted, and leaning over I told her: 'a PINT of GI -NESS ...' She repeated the order to me, and I nodded. Obviously not a rocket scientist ... like me, ... but she was Blonde. And for all practical purposes, that's all she'll ever need to be. I'm not knocking it! Physical beauty is much better to have than even, say, a 200 IQ - you can just breeze through life with a cheeky grin, getting away with all manner of stuff that the facially-challenged are brought to account for.

The barmaids at Biddys are all very nice looking, and efficient, but don't talk much. Its a trade-off, do you want some flirtatious banter, or do you want to get fucking served. I know what I prefer. (- but £2.50 for Guinness is a bit steep I reckon. Drop the prices Biddys and you get top marks.)

Relaxing into pint #2, I scanned my surroundings. The talent was amazing, gorgeous girls in every direction. The music was of the classic 'choons' variety - good stuff of all eras, something for everyone, stuff that gets the feet tapping. And this is what I like about the place - there's not much dancing as such, but you can if you want to, but everyone is making some rhythmic movement or other. I like this freedom - going back to choosing where to go out, the dancing or not question is one that often produces a strong division, its either/or. Whereas most of us are a wee bit self conscious about strutting our stuff, but, when we get a wee bit pissed, start to get brave. At Biddys you have the choice; barfly is OK, wallflower is OK, gently grooving with a pint in your hand is OK too, and if you want full-on hands in the air extravagance, then go for it.

One particular face at the far end of the bar caught my eye for a second, and I felt a twinge of recognition, but thought not much of it, there was too much going on elsewhere. I was starting to enjoy myself and canned my plans to go up the union, this was fine. As I sank another, I became surer of the face I had seen. After a trip to the toilet, I rejoined the bar, but down at the other end. Behind me a swarthy chap seemed to be blocking the path of some guy who was heading over to the Face, not violently but firmly, politely. Ah-ha I thought, I *am* right, that guy must be the minder (- no offence mate, but I didn't think you were the love interest.) >

Standing at the bar, people squeeze in beside you to get their round, and you develop a feeling for someone's presence - you can feel their eagerness. I could feel someone behind me, so I shifted slightly and gestured them to the bar. Getting her round in, standing next to me, was the Face. She ordered, and I thought for a moment, considering my options - shouldn't hassle her, she's incognito, just out for a pint with her mates, but at the same time, it was too good an opportunity to miss. I turned and spoke:

g: '... excuse me, I'm not being cheeky or anything, ... but aren't you in the Corrs?'

The Face smirked gently, and spoke quite quickly in a gentle Irish accent:

F: ' ...now if I was, what would I be doing here, right now ...'

g: ' I don't know ... having a good time perhaps'

I turned facing forwards, sipping on my beer.

g: 'I'm right, aren't I'

No answer, and no admittance, but she knows she's been rumbled.

F:' So if I *was* one of the Corrs, which one would I be?'

The Corrs facial similarity is, I would imagine, one of the clichés of Corr-'fan' interactions - she's toying with me a bit, but I'm not having it.

g:'You are the violinist, of course' . I said seriously, acting a bit miffed. A short break ensues, I sip my pint and turn again.

g:'I have a friend who is an ENORMOUS Corrs fan, and YOU are his *particular* favourite, (wait for it! - she's smirking) ... but personally I think you're crap!'

I mean, I'm not a fan, and don't want to appear or be treated as such.

The Corr - Sharon I think is her name, has this amazing half-smile, an expression full of subtlety, which she plays with all the time, and my reading of it was that she enjoyed the joke. Didn't mind my gentle disrespect, and seemed relaxed and happy enough to chat with me for a few minutes, without turning cold, or calling over the human rottweiler to sort me out. - Respect to Shazza! A very nice lady, and a very beautiful one, even as she was, dressed down, in a baggy shirt, and not wearing makeup (the true test of pulchritude!) And she was game for some banter:

F: 'well, you might think that, but what do you think of people making lots of money at what you think is crap'. Touché. I furrowed my brow, crinkling my eyes.

g: 'hmm, you do have a point .. So, how are you liking Edinburgh anyway'

She turned quizzical.

F: 'its great, but I haven't met hardly any Scottish people. Where are they?

g: ' ...er, this IS an Irish pub, and it is full of Kiwis up for the rugby'.

Which seemed an adequate answer. Deciding to respect her pop-star status, I carried on:

g:'I would ask you for your autograph, but I don't actually have a pen, ... or anything to write on' (Please don't think I'm not impressed, coz I really am).

She said something I didn't catch, so I just smiled. Finally, the drinks arrived.

F:' don't tell anyone, I'm just having a quiet night'

g:' your secret is safe with me. And BTW, ... its been a pleasure'.

And off she went. Out of my life forever! Of course, I was pushing my luck a wee bit, but things like this don't happen everyday - allegedly, the singer ?Andrea gets stroppy with folk, and would have had mental mickey dislocating my shoulder blades and flushing my head down the lav at the same time. I meant to ask her to set me up with the ever-so-cute, but shamefully often overlooked drummer (sexy sweaty girl full of energy!), but I felt I had been waspish enough for one evening.

Half an hour later was chucking out time - I harboured a smidgen of hope that she might have come back over for a second instalment of my dry wit, but alas. I strode down the gorge of the Cowgate, hardly believing the evenings events. Nipping out for a casual pint is rarely so interesting. Or bizarre. I was wondering at my own behaviour as well - could I have been so cool if I had bumped into a personal hero, or would I have done the usual - either froze, or gushed like an idiot (ithinkyirmagicivegotallyourrecordsohmigod). What if it had been Debbie Harry or Muhammad Ali. I don't know - the way things are going, I might yet find out!

Life is absurd, and so strange, it resists all attempts to categorise and contain it - I've come to realise this over the years. Once, I thought as I got older I would learn more, finding some kind of convergence, some insight about life's mystery, but even as I learn so much more, the boundaries of ignorance race off into the void. - Some day I hope to know nothing at all.

Buy me a Corrs video for Xmas, and I will watch it everyday. (Sound off, of course). As a final tribute to Biddys, think on this: Sharon-Corr was *not* the best looking thing in it that night! Well-up the table, mind, but not quite at the very top.

Gaza,

ps -honest guys! this is a straight-up, no fkng shit, swear on the the lives of the little children, true story. I couldn't make this up - its too weird. And if I did make it up: (a) - I would have met Nina Cardigan while admiring the paintings in the Poussin room of the National Gallery, devastated her with my wit and artistic insight, then later on (b) - shagged her, at least twice.

Next episode: The night I drubbed David Bowie at pool.

The one after: asking directions of George Michael at Calton Hill, 10-30pm on a Saturday. (hmm, Bit too realistic that one)