Day 43. 161 pages, 58,131 words.
I’ll get to the movies soon, probably. In the meantime, here’s another amusing thing that happened to me on Saturday night.
So, I was at the Fahrenheit residence enjoying decent drinks, good movies, and excellent company. I had a couple of extra-strong long drinks (or stronkero, as I was calling them), which were sometimes nice (the bitter herb flavour) and sometimes an abomination unto Nuggan (the blackcurrant flavour). Topped with two Garages, a beer, and a selection of soft drinks into all of which I poured jallu for some perverse reason, and I was good and merry by the time midnight approached and I started trying to find my way back to the back-woods of Vantaa.
The Pas and I enjoyed some wine on the train, which sounds classy until you realise (as you probably did almost immediately) that we were drinking it out of the bottle. Everyone else was drinking too – the security and ticket checking folks were just walking up and down the aisles looking resigned – but at least we were drinking wine, damn it. I saw people drinking Foster’s. Honest to God, Foster’s.
Anyhoo, The Pas and I parted ways in Helsinki and I proceeded to the bus station. I had been unable to successfully read the HSL route-pages on my phone in the final few seconds before its battery went irretrievably dead, but I had at least deciphered the platform I was supposed to go to (it had changed from the platform that’s delivered buses to Vantaa for the past 15 years, because fuck continuity and fuck familiarity and most particularly fuck anyone who wants to take a bus with HSL), and was reasonably sure that some sort of bus would take me to within forest-rambling distance of my house even if a bus to my actual house was off the table. There were a lot of buses with “N” next to their numbers, which I assume meant “Night”, but whether that came with any sort of attendant change in route, I wasn’t sure. And that, of course, meant that it did. Because fuck HSL so fucking hard, I can’t say that enough.
So I parked myself at the platform, turned up my iPod, and waited to see what would happen next.
As usual, what happened next was that drunk people started to talk to me. In this case, a very unsteady Irish fellow who had previously been talking to another unsuspecting member of public (but who had jumped on the previous bus to escape), and who now turned to me and began talking inaudibly.
It wasn’t until a couple of minutes later that I realised he was talking to me, at which point I took out my headphones and said “are you talking to me?” and he laughed and called me a motherfucker.
From that point on, we were besties. Or, since we were destined to catch a bus together, let’s say we were busties. Except I was the only one with man-boobs. But I digress.
A highly, highly amusing trip into Vantaa ensued, with Brian (for such was his name) trying to convince me to get off the bus in Nissas (for such was his place of residence) and come to his place to have a smoke. He would, he promised, “come back in” and tell his girlfriend to leave me alone when she started yelling about who are you and what are you doing here. I was familiar with the drill, having long since embraced the role of “drunken reprobate who goes home to keep drinking with apparently-salvageable boyfriend, much to disapproval of lady of the house”. In this case, however, I was tired and queasy and actually didn’t want to smoke, and as amusing as it would have been to upset Brian’s girlfriend I chose to be a grown-up as befit the grey in my beard. Besides, I was more interested in the interesting detail that Brian would be “coming back in”, as though he had left at some point in his disturbingly-detailed hypothetical scenario, in which he had presumably gone somewhere to hide so I could face the wrath of the Finnish Girlfriend alone.
 We’d bonded, previously, on the usual “what are you in for” story that most foreigners share in Finland, specifically that a Finnish woman (in the case of the heterosexual male demographic) got her hooks into us and suddenly we’d been living in Finland for years and years and food, drinks and soap with tar in were now normal. But I digress again.
This wasn’t even the funniest part of the trip home.
We were joined on the bus by Fanny, a friend-of-a-friend who I’ve met a few times, who had just finished a long work shift. She sat behind Brian and I and enjoyed our wacky hijinks and shared the Garage I pulled from my bag so we could continue to drink. I, meanwhile, did my best to stop Brian from lighting up cigarettes and from touching the hair of a poor blameless man who had already told Brian to fuck off while we were waiting for the bus, and was now trying to sleep in the seat in front of us. Brian thought the man’s hair was magnificent, and just had to touch it. I’m also pretty sure he thought the man was a woman.
 Two such occasions on a late-night Saturday bus on the way home from a Fahrenheit movie evening, actually.
 He had one from the packet he was carrying, and another that he somehow managed to get a paralytically drunk man across the aisle to roll for him, so it was mostly the fact that his hands were full that was to thank for his inability to light either cigarette up. Now, for context, Brian was sitting in the window seat, I was on the aisle, and the monstrously drunk cigarette-roller was across the aisle from me. So getting a cigarette from him required a lot of very boozy leanover. And Brian dropped both cigarettes at least three times each.
This wasn’t the funniest part either.
We rolled through the darkness, and it became blatantly apparent to me that Brian had forgotten the topics we’d already talked about. He told me several things for a second, then a third time. After saying “I know, you told me already” a couple of times, I decided to have some fun with it.
This was when I put my index finger to my temple, Charles Xavier-style, and said, “your name is Brian. You’re Irish but you’ve never been invited to the Embassy for St. Patrick’s in your four years in Finland. You lost your passport, leaving it on a plane when you flew in from Poland one time. You were born in 1984 and you still spank it to Samantha Fox.”
This genuinely seemed to freak Brian the fuck out, and he demanded to know how I was doing that shit. It was glorious.
This was all very amusing, and I had a good chortle about it on my way back through the forest and home.
I’m still not sure that was the funniest part, though.
The next morning, I was still chortling as I told Mrs. Hatboy about my adventure.
“Hold on,” she said, “He was Irish, his name was Brian, and he lived in Nissas? So … he was Jonathan’s sister’s boyfriend. You’ve met him a few times. He was at Linza and Jonathan’s wedding, and then again at their going-away party when they went to the States.”
Look, in my defence, there was quite a lot of alcohol at both of those events, especially the second one (which I already linked but I’m linking again here). And Brian hadn’t recognised me either!
Anyway, that was my Saturday night and early Sunday morning.