started out sedately (the mood, not the bar bits you ate) @ our abode in the love.ly chisswick. nige and melissa + our flattie megan (good lass from the tron) and her friend. nibbling nibbles. drinking drinks. musicing music.
decided to flag the fireworks (where megan was headed) opting for the homely home (was way shite weather). drinking. nibbling. musicing.
after much group bondage i managed to drag the peeps from the warm interior (after nige decided that a roadie of 1/2 a bottle of 10 yo single malt was called for...)
headed on the free tube to the fabulous and dingy east, destined for the Hoxton Pimps extravaganza (roots manuva and a host of other goodies) - touted as being a multi media multi genre multi room wibble or other. all good.
first stop; south kensington. only because i spotted wobbly bryce heading out the exit door - beeline for the 1/2 square metre of garden there - promptly making himself aquainted with the various botanical samples on offer (as he is known to do) - contributing his own lovingly ejected emesus as fertiliser for the benefit of the future generation of communters. kindly melissa persuaded the helpful tube staff to give us some much appreciated water and we were off - back onto the district line and steaming towards the ditch (shoreditch). somewhere bewteen victoria and st james' park it became clear that nige had a little more to get off his chest, or at least out of his stomach... bulging cheeks barley contained by pursed lips... all in the direction of the unknowing melissa... thank gness for handy plastic cups... nige obliging by providing a very respectful specimin (again for the benefit of future generations of communters, although pity she who discovers the cup under the bench @ westminster). although it is unlikely to be discovered too soon, as only the most intrepid communter wouldn't be diverted by alana's contribution to interior colour scheme on the platform - obviously feeling that a little more claret was required on the walls, and the floor, and nige's shoe (missed the trousers, how? no one can explain. maybe the cctv footage will reveal. head to www.youtube.com/alana_technicolour_yawn01 and let us know what you think).
so, with body cavities appropriate cleared, alana negotiated boarding the sardine can tube (carefully wrapping a single stocking clad leg around the door) and the group was on again off again again again. freezing asses along deserted eastern streets, squatting where the sun don't shine (or shining where the sun don't squat?) we qued outside the pumping venue only to be turned away because we were at the wrong 'underground warehouse party at secret hoxton location'. up and down and up the streets we go. no one knows. until we figure it was the original party, except we needed to go thru the rear entry (the girls smirked at least. nige was almost up to smirking by now. but not quite.) to the orignial secret venue. right. two gigs. one venue. two tickets. one venue. right. although i discovered that although like a ghost i can pass thru most security checks (list it with my super powers. along with 1. stating the obvious and 2. falling asleep AND waking up whenever i want to.) i can't when i am a group of 4. so we were stuck in only 1/2 a gig. the doongy half. was kinda like being at an orientation gig with less beer and more pills. and more artificial grass (just happened to be an indoor football arena).
highlights included (in no particular order): um. 'i say 2000, you say 7', double egg sandwich (with FREE mustard), mr ozu's flat beat, dancing between the bbq and the heater (in the main corridor / entrance way) - definitely the floor to be on. hotdog in a hamburger bun with a hotdog in a hamburger bun. don't know where rodney smith got to. think he might have gone to the less doongy half of the gig (was really two gigs separated by a chicken wire fence).
but we have our pride. we stayed until at least 3.25, at which time we realised that the free tube was going to be turning into a pumpkin (wouldn't want to spend £1.50 if you don't have to right? that's 3 Litres of milk! yeah! or perhaps £80 on the taxi home. double prices nys eve anyone?). no-one wanted to share my milk or chrips on the ride home, with the conversation waning early in the journey.
so. after a wee de-brief with all the londoners we know, discovered that NO-ONE went out on NYs, staying @ home, or having civilised dinners around civilised candles or fleeing to far flung destinations like gissborne or perhaps mountain maunganui. so, when booking your next NYs, either don't get me to book your fun, or stay at home. i like www.myspace.com/whyisnewyearsalwaysshit . or start your own super club. you can all be on the guest list.
but really. was cool to be pretending to live in this city. almost like we were really living here. for real. and superb to have such good chums like N&M to lark with and to be able to make fun of nige and his wibble. wibblolicious.
this was all in response to Geraldine cos i reckon she would have had a rip snorter in g-town. maybe you could write us a story G? or perhaps everyone else could. that would be ace.
oh, and what of the decorative alana? thankfully monday was a very soft day, and there were dry water crackers (somewhat of an foxymoron) to nibble on (and later jolly good big burgers thanks claire!) only a little sorry for herself. my love.
