Good afternoon, Blog-fans. It has been far too long since my last confession.
I am writing this missive from an internet cafe in West Kensington. "And why is that?" I hear you ask. Well, it has been a bad couple of weeks or so for me all ready and this is the straw that has broken this particular camel's back.
My iPod died at the end of last week. Well, it hasn't died, in fairness, but I have had to take it in for some surgery. The headphone socket has gone and so I searched the internet for somewhere to get my iPod fixed and to save my musical soul. Google and my friend Andy came up with this place - http://www.ipodrepaircentre.com. As you can see, it seems well established, has been in this game for years and for just £45 I can listen to music again and the world will be a better place.
So, I begin the epic pilgrimage from Hackney. An overground and three tubes later, I arrive at the place. It is not the iPod relief hospital I had ben led to believe. It is instead your average, run of the mill, common and garden mobile phone shop run by a Turkish fellow and his daughter. I walk in and ask whether this is the iPod Repair Centre made so famous by the internet, to which he replies it is. I tell him I was expecting something more grandiose than this, to coincide with those images I had witnessed on the web, and had travelled all the way from Hackney for this. "Hackney? Bloody hell, mate, you should have said. My brother has a shop on Mare Street and he could have done this for you".
At this point, I start crying inside. But maybe I can rescue my afternoon by leaving my iPod with these highly trained professionals and getting to an HMV and spending something from my Xmas gift card. No chance. There is nothing around here. West London is officially shit. Fuck my life (http://www.fmylife.com).
Anyway, enough of that. You are here because you want to hear about my latest escapades with the laydeez. And there are plenty. PLENTY. All resulting in my failing, you will be delighted to know.
When I left you last, I had had two dates on a Sunday afternoon, with Theatre Girl and le Femme Fatale, and had two more dates lined up. So I shall fill you in on each of them.
Firstly, la Femme Fatale. Gorgeous, intelligent, well-read, sexy, interesting, interested in me - our first date went spectacularly. We got on as though we had known each other for ages and it was a pleasure - we even have a history of terrible dating experiences to share with each other! The conversation went all over the place, from favourite films, the unanswerable question as to how exactly James McAvoy has forged a Hollywood career, my love of the Arsenal, her singing in a punk rock karaoke band, and how you deal with people you meet on dates who want to go out again but who you have no interest in. Apparently her tactic is to send them an email simply saying "I know this is hard to believe but I have actually found love with someone else and although it is early days, I like this guy and don't think we should see each other any more". Genius.
Anyway, the date went well, I was eager to see her again and the feeling was mutual. However, the nature of her job (film producer, don't ya know) was such that she was unavailable until 5 March! This brings us up to the present.
So, imagine my delight when the other Tuesday she sends me a text out of the blue saying "Hey, I know it's short notice but I've got two tickets for a private screening of 'Watchmen' - wanna be my date?xx". Zut alors! I accept and meet her the next evening at the Odeon West End. We chat, we laugh, we discuss our jobs (my life? Dull. Her life? Awesome. She was off to have supper with Philip Seymour Hoffman's brother after the film to discuss a picture she has in pre-production. As you do...), and we watch the movie (7/10 - Snyder did the best he could but the whole thing is a bit messy).
She apologises afterwards for having to disappear, but insists we have a quick drink before she scarpers off which I happily accept. It's very nice, the chat is good and there is a big hug and kiss just off the mouth before we go our separate ways. I skip off into the sunset and the World is again a beautiful place.
The next morning I get into work and Variety are reporting that Ridley Scott has cast Russell Crowe as both Robin Hood AND the Sheriff of Nottingham in his new movie. I email the story to la Femme Fatale and we banter and have a chuckle before at the end of the email she writes as follows:
"I know this is hard to believe but I have actually found love with someone else and although it is early days, I like this guy and don't think we should see each other any more".
EH? I'm certain I had heard these words from her lips before somewhere... oh yes... she had already told me that this is how she dumps guys she just doesn't like. Bugger, and indeed, 'fuck my life'.
So, that was the end of her. C'est la vie. Anyway, I wasn't that disheartened as I was due to see Theatre Girl again that evening for our second date. Our first date was fantastic and we hit it off straight away, discussing theatre, art direction, South America and all manners of things before we parted company and she was keen to ask me out again.
That evening, still reeling slightly from The Curious Incident of la Femme Fatale in the Email, I met up with Theatre Girl around Waterloo and we shared a few cocktails and drinks and such, had more giggles, and this time a bit of a kiss and cuddle before she had to get her train home. We even discussed going out again at the weekend.
The next morning I get a "Thank you for a lovely evening" text and she suggests we go to some warehouse party / club-type thing in Dalston on Saturday night. The thing that pops into my head is that Dalston is pretty much where I live so this may be a leading question.
"YES" I immediately reply and she says "Great, the place is called Passing Clouds - check it!xx". So I turn to my friends at google, and I do.
Oh no. As you can see for yourself here, http://www.passingclouds.org , the place is cunt soup. Anywhere that has "Welcome, Dear Pilgrim" on it's front page is never going to be good for anything except rebuilding the hate in you that you had thought had subsided. It is a place for people who tell their friends to pronounce their names "Heeelene" even though it is spelt "Helen" and their parents call them "Helen". People who tell you that they listen to music 'ironically'. People who at parties when asked what they do for a living reply, "I'm actually a Wizard. I've been ordained as a Minister in my own Vegan pseudo-Communist Church".
I hate people like this more than pretty much anything. You know, cunts who have never experienced anything real. People who couldn't tell you what it is like to wake up in the arms of someone else whom you feel entrapped by and in awe of, almost completely powerless. People who have never listened to a song and had it leave them curled on the floor crying. People who had never felt the sheer release of joy in seeing their team score a last minute winner. People whose parents had never told them they loved them enough and hide behind these masks to hide themselves. People who live their lives according to what Charlie Brooker and fashionable 'ironic' websites tells them. People who think that THIS place is an acceptable drinking establishment - http://www.thelighte1.com. People who think Pete Doherty is the greatest poet and rock star of this generation but who couldn't tell you the names of any of his songs. People described by Jeff Stelling here (http://technorati.com/videos/youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DzdBuDSEokz0). People who I detest and pity in equal measure.
And I was going to have an evening full of them. FML, again.
The next day I get another text from her saying that she has friends coming to stay from Edinburgh so they're coming along too. So not only had any suggestion of sex been wiped out in an eleventh of a heartbeat, I had to find Wingmen from somewhere (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wingman_(social)) to support me. I tried everywhere and everyone greeted me with replies along the lines of "Depends on what type of do it is" - to which I forward the link to the Passing Clouds website. This leads to replies along the lines of "Fuck off". Kudos, then, to Kinky Steve who agreed to stand by my side the entire evening and entertain the out-of-towners whilst I looked to work my magic on Theatre Girl.
I don't know how, but it turned into a fun night. The place was not full of cunts and wasn't in any way cuntish. The 'Balkan Beats' we were threatened with had cancelled and been replaced with two live acts (I thoroughly recommend Jason O'Driscoll http://shambobala.com/jason/biog.html) who were moderately entertaining. We had a bit of a listen and a bit of a boogie and then retired to the chillout room upstairs for a laugh and a few more drinks before I phoned the girls a taxi at 4am and got them off home as Kinky Steve and I made the 15 minute walk home, in agreement that the evening went well and that she seems a cracking girl and completely 'my type'.
Midday the next day and I wake up in my bed still completely shattered and on my phone is a text message from Theatre Girl telling me that there is no spark between us and that we shouldn't see each other again. And there was me thinking her kissing me was a sign she liked me. Tsh!
So, onwards and upwards. Or so I thought. Following that I was back to the drawing board, and had three more first dates lined up over the next week - Elly the Actress, Tits McGee and TammyHorseyHockeySticks ("THHS").
Tits McGee and THHS went wonderfully well and we set up second dates very quickly indeed. Tits McGee is very cool and has a cheeky turn of phrase and razor sharp wit. We also ended up playing cards and sinking beers, and she is quite the Rummy player, I can tell you. THHS was nothing liked how I imagined her but fiendishly intelligent and very, very cute. I am sure there is more to come but I will update you further after the second dates. After all, looking at the above, it appears that that is where the funs comes... ;o)
But, before those girls I met up with Elly the Actress. We got on great over emails and the phone, and I was looking forward to it, especially after a nightmarish day at work where I again had to do Fucknuts' job for him. I get to the pub near Hampstead Heath and I buy us a bottle of decent red wine and we sit down by a log fire and start up some conversation.
CORRECTION. Conversation as defined by several dictionaries, "The spoken exchange of thoughts, opinions, and feelings; talk". The key word here is 'exchange'. There was none. Three hours later and I knew that girl inside out. Her friends, family, how her hunt for a new flatmate is going, her acting career and training, her teenage years, her summer jobs whilst at school, her favourite films, her mum and dad and their fucking musical careers within the English National Opera and favourite cunting Womble. She never asked me a single thing, knew nothing about me by the end of the evening and even thought my name was 'Daniel' (it is not). I was not impressed.
At this time, it was 10:30pm and I was rather sozzled and desperate to go home. We had finished our drinks and so I said to her "Well, what's the plan?" to which she says "Oh, there's a train in a couple of minutes but why don't we stay for a nightcap?"
I looked at her with an expression my face that resembled a man who had watched a stranger come into his living room on Xmas Day and literally piss on his children's heads and said "REALLY?" in my most indignant tone. She looked surprised and said "Oh, come on, it's Thursday and I don't have work in the morning!"
It is the first time I have ever ordered a drink out of sheer spite. I ordered a large Glenlivet and slunk in my chair hating this woman. She arrived back from the bar bemoaning how my drink had cost £8. I offered no apology and drank my whiskey earnestly as she continued talking about an audition she had that morning for a Nintendo advert where she was auditioning for the part of a woman in her late teens.
*NOT WITH THOSE CROW'S FEET, LOVE* xx
She finished her whine/wine and we went to the station where her train was waiting. I got to my platform and the next two trains had been cancelled. I had a 45 minute wait during which I sent a very sweary and abusive email to London Overground that I only remembered about the next morning. I am dreading the reply as I used the word 'scum' a lot. FUCK. MY. LIFE.
And that brings us up to speed! As mentioned above, there are more dates in the pipeline this week so I will keep you all posted once there is any news. In the meantime, take care of yourselves... and each other xxxx
Showing posts with label football. Show all posts
Showing posts with label football. Show all posts
Saturday, 7 March 2009
Tuesday, 10 February 2009
PhDs mean nothing
Hello again there, fair readers.
So, the weekend has come and passed and in a few hours it will officially be 'midweek'. The weekend was dull and eventful for the most part. After Friday night's uni-manual happenings, Saturday was spent on my lonesome relaxing and doing close to fuck all ahead of a hectic Sunday.
Sunday was spent scooting around doing a variety of odd jobs whilst trying to enjoy myself a bit as well. After all, even Lawyers have weekends (believe it or not). The North London derby was an early kick-off which meant having to meet my brother at the ridiculously early and unacceptable midday. The plan was to meet some buddies, watch the game, have a bevvie and take it from there. However, brother has recently split from girlfriend and has had up and downs. Sunday was a down. He looked like the visual personification of the shits. I would not recommend him to that woman from EastEnders who looks like a cross between a buzzard and one of 'The Witches' such was his state of physical non-attractiveness at that point.
So, I cancelled on the friends, we went to our aunt's instead (no beer, loads of tea and sausage and onion sandwiches galore) for solace and friendly faces. It's like 'Cheers' only without the joy, fun, hilarious quips from Ted Danson as he flirts with Shelly Long/Kirstie Alley, and the happy-go-lucky punters. Instead we get Emmanuel Eboue acting like a cwnt. Again. *sigh*
Anyhow, an awful match later and I decide to punish myself by going to the gym. This was a bad idea as I threw up afterwards on my way to doing a television interview with the Serbian equivalent of Sky Sports. That was incredibly random and I believe that the 'film crew' have at one time or another been baddies in '24'.
As you may have seen from my last entry, I was due to have a date with a PhD student called Clare after that. Unfortunately, she cancelled until Monday (trying to find a flatmate through Gumtree), which did allow me more sofa time. Or at least I thought.
For those of you who don't know, I am a heavy dater. In the American sense of the word. You find a nice girl, go out for a drink or dinner or some such, see what happens and if it is meant to be, then wonderful. If not, then it's an evening better spent than it would have been stuck at home fretting, depressed over the impossibility of meeting a woman in London and crying your eyes out on the sofa as you attempt to flagellate your flaccid and pathetic excuse for a penis which packed it's balls up and left three years ago. Or 'cry-maxing' as Kinky Steve refers to it as. NOT AS THOUGH I EVER DO THAT AND IF YOU TELL ANYONE I'LL FIND YOU AND KILL YOU.
Ahem.
Anyway, Clare cancelled, and whilst I expected a quiet night, I instead had to deal with a flood of text messages from two women I have had different liaisons with in the past few weeks. First up was Nat. Nat's a lovely and charming girl and as we were getting to know each other seemed to tick more and more of the 'boxes' as it were. Funny, cute, doing a PhD and about to qualify as a clinical psychologist... all rather promising.
Or so it seemed.
Nat is the dimmest girl on the face of the earth. Seriously. Despite being obviously book smart, she hasn't got a clue. The poor cow actually had an alarm on her phone that went off every three seconds simply saying "Breathe".
The main tell-tale signs were when we were walking around the Natural History Museum and she made a couple of worrying gaffes:
1) In the 'mammals' hall there is a giant replica of a blue whale. She was certain it was real and had been stuffed by a taxidermist. I looked deep into her eyes, nee, her SOUL to see if she was actually being hilarious. But alas, all I could see in those eyes was a four year old girl running through a meadow, eating candy floss and being chased by a puppy.
2) We then go into the dinosaur exhibition. We are strolling around, looking at the admittedly wonderful skeletons, and she turns to me, looks me in the eye and says "You can see where humans have come from when you see them like this, can't you?". I look confused and she picks up on this, but before she gets a chance to open her mouth I cut in with "How do you mean?". "Well, we've got skeletons, two arms and two legs, and you can see that in the dinosaurs". I was flabbergasted. We even went around the Anthropology exhibit later where it clearly shows how HUMANS COME FROM FUCKING MONKEYS, NOT CUNTING DINOSAURS and she still didn't seem to get it.
Anyway, we had a nice time, quick drink afterwards and she went off to her friends' house for the second of their three 'Lord of the Rings' theme nights where they all dress up as Middle Earthlings, eat Middle Earth food and watch the film DON'T GET ME STARTED.
We swap a text or two the next day (the Snow Day), it's all rather nice but we seem to come to the conclusion that it's not going to work out and we'll see each other around. Fine by me, all good, no worries.
And so we arrive at Sunday night, two days ago. Nat is out on the lash in Northampton (bloody students). I know this because she texted me 9 times to update me. All very nice and sweet and I reply with casual, non-committal "Glad you're having a nice time, but I'm trying to play Lego Batman so sod off"-type messages.
At this point, I get a lambasting from her (albeit via SMS). She starts effing and blinding (seriously - t'was the language of the snooker hall, not that of a nubile young lady. Even one from Birmingham) about how angry she is with me. Apparently I am supposed to 'woo her' and have made absolutely no effort to do so and as a result she doesn't want to see me again. This is completely and utterly true, but I remind her that we weren't going to see each other ever again anyway and that she probably needs to calm down a little. She then finishes the conversation by telling me that unless I buck my ideas up she's not going to ask me out again. I leave it there.
The second woman to contact me was "My Big Fat Greek Bedding" from last Wednesday's absolutely hilarious, Robin Askwith-like sex-capade. She wants to meet up again, I do not, and that was that. Sorted.
So, to Monday and Clare. Work was fine and generally uneventful (although I am still clearing up after one of my internal clients, known hereinafter as 'Fucknuts' sent a load of fatties skiing in Milton Keynes last week without any insurance in place. Tit), and then after a very quick session in the gym I met up with Clare.
It was the most uneventful date ever. Very, very nice, girl, clever (knows that humans and dinosaurs are different. That has now become a staple first date question, along with "favourite bands", "where did you to go to uni?" and "tits or face?"), great music collection, plays the ukulele... but absolutely no spark and she's barely free anyway. So there we go. Although she fancies going to a pub quiz next week so I guess we'll see.
And that's that. This week brings Valentine's Day (me and Kinky Steve drinking and crying. Probably), a hard rest-of-the-week at work, and maybe another date over the weekend depending on whether Camille the Film Producer gets back from the Berlin Film Festival in time.
I will of course keep you all updated, so keep smiling and I will speak to you all later.
So, the weekend has come and passed and in a few hours it will officially be 'midweek'. The weekend was dull and eventful for the most part. After Friday night's uni-manual happenings, Saturday was spent on my lonesome relaxing and doing close to fuck all ahead of a hectic Sunday.
Sunday was spent scooting around doing a variety of odd jobs whilst trying to enjoy myself a bit as well. After all, even Lawyers have weekends (believe it or not). The North London derby was an early kick-off which meant having to meet my brother at the ridiculously early and unacceptable midday. The plan was to meet some buddies, watch the game, have a bevvie and take it from there. However, brother has recently split from girlfriend and has had up and downs. Sunday was a down. He looked like the visual personification of the shits. I would not recommend him to that woman from EastEnders who looks like a cross between a buzzard and one of 'The Witches' such was his state of physical non-attractiveness at that point.
So, I cancelled on the friends, we went to our aunt's instead (no beer, loads of tea and sausage and onion sandwiches galore) for solace and friendly faces. It's like 'Cheers' only without the joy, fun, hilarious quips from Ted Danson as he flirts with Shelly Long/Kirstie Alley, and the happy-go-lucky punters. Instead we get Emmanuel Eboue acting like a cwnt. Again. *sigh*
Anyhow, an awful match later and I decide to punish myself by going to the gym. This was a bad idea as I threw up afterwards on my way to doing a television interview with the Serbian equivalent of Sky Sports. That was incredibly random and I believe that the 'film crew' have at one time or another been baddies in '24'.
As you may have seen from my last entry, I was due to have a date with a PhD student called Clare after that. Unfortunately, she cancelled until Monday (trying to find a flatmate through Gumtree), which did allow me more sofa time. Or at least I thought.
For those of you who don't know, I am a heavy dater. In the American sense of the word. You find a nice girl, go out for a drink or dinner or some such, see what happens and if it is meant to be, then wonderful. If not, then it's an evening better spent than it would have been stuck at home fretting, depressed over the impossibility of meeting a woman in London and crying your eyes out on the sofa as you attempt to flagellate your flaccid and pathetic excuse for a penis which packed it's balls up and left three years ago. Or 'cry-maxing' as Kinky Steve refers to it as. NOT AS THOUGH I EVER DO THAT AND IF YOU TELL ANYONE I'LL FIND YOU AND KILL YOU.
Ahem.
Anyway, Clare cancelled, and whilst I expected a quiet night, I instead had to deal with a flood of text messages from two women I have had different liaisons with in the past few weeks. First up was Nat. Nat's a lovely and charming girl and as we were getting to know each other seemed to tick more and more of the 'boxes' as it were. Funny, cute, doing a PhD and about to qualify as a clinical psychologist... all rather promising.
Or so it seemed.
Nat is the dimmest girl on the face of the earth. Seriously. Despite being obviously book smart, she hasn't got a clue. The poor cow actually had an alarm on her phone that went off every three seconds simply saying "Breathe".
The main tell-tale signs were when we were walking around the Natural History Museum and she made a couple of worrying gaffes:
1) In the 'mammals' hall there is a giant replica of a blue whale. She was certain it was real and had been stuffed by a taxidermist. I looked deep into her eyes, nee, her SOUL to see if she was actually being hilarious. But alas, all I could see in those eyes was a four year old girl running through a meadow, eating candy floss and being chased by a puppy.
2) We then go into the dinosaur exhibition. We are strolling around, looking at the admittedly wonderful skeletons, and she turns to me, looks me in the eye and says "You can see where humans have come from when you see them like this, can't you?". I look confused and she picks up on this, but before she gets a chance to open her mouth I cut in with "How do you mean?". "Well, we've got skeletons, two arms and two legs, and you can see that in the dinosaurs". I was flabbergasted. We even went around the Anthropology exhibit later where it clearly shows how HUMANS COME FROM FUCKING MONKEYS, NOT CUNTING DINOSAURS and she still didn't seem to get it.
Anyway, we had a nice time, quick drink afterwards and she went off to her friends' house for the second of their three 'Lord of the Rings' theme nights where they all dress up as Middle Earthlings, eat Middle Earth food and watch the film DON'T GET ME STARTED.
We swap a text or two the next day (the Snow Day), it's all rather nice but we seem to come to the conclusion that it's not going to work out and we'll see each other around. Fine by me, all good, no worries.
And so we arrive at Sunday night, two days ago. Nat is out on the lash in Northampton (bloody students). I know this because she texted me 9 times to update me. All very nice and sweet and I reply with casual, non-committal "Glad you're having a nice time, but I'm trying to play Lego Batman so sod off"-type messages.
At this point, I get a lambasting from her (albeit via SMS). She starts effing and blinding (seriously - t'was the language of the snooker hall, not that of a nubile young lady. Even one from Birmingham) about how angry she is with me. Apparently I am supposed to 'woo her' and have made absolutely no effort to do so and as a result she doesn't want to see me again. This is completely and utterly true, but I remind her that we weren't going to see each other ever again anyway and that she probably needs to calm down a little. She then finishes the conversation by telling me that unless I buck my ideas up she's not going to ask me out again. I leave it there.
The second woman to contact me was "My Big Fat Greek Bedding" from last Wednesday's absolutely hilarious, Robin Askwith-like sex-capade. She wants to meet up again, I do not, and that was that. Sorted.
So, to Monday and Clare. Work was fine and generally uneventful (although I am still clearing up after one of my internal clients, known hereinafter as 'Fucknuts' sent a load of fatties skiing in Milton Keynes last week without any insurance in place. Tit), and then after a very quick session in the gym I met up with Clare.
It was the most uneventful date ever. Very, very nice, girl, clever (knows that humans and dinosaurs are different. That has now become a staple first date question, along with "favourite bands", "where did you to go to uni?" and "tits or face?"), great music collection, plays the ukulele... but absolutely no spark and she's barely free anyway. So there we go. Although she fancies going to a pub quiz next week so I guess we'll see.
And that's that. This week brings Valentine's Day (me and Kinky Steve drinking and crying. Probably), a hard rest-of-the-week at work, and maybe another date over the weekend depending on whether Camille the Film Producer gets back from the Berlin Film Festival in time.
I will of course keep you all updated, so keep smiling and I will speak to you all later.
Saturday, 7 February 2009
This is what the title means...
As you can see, the title of my blog is 'My life is a sitcom'. This goes back to an email conversation I was having on Thursday with Kinky Steve, Scouse Nick, Lewis and Fail, where I was regaling the tale of an impromptu dating experience I had on Wednesday night that descended into something from 'Peep Show' meets 'Friends'. I mentioned in the email chain that 'my life is a sitcom', as this was not the first time it had happened, and from there the blog was born.
So, on to Friday night. I normally go out with Kinky Steve and Andy on Fridays, but this week both were unavailable. I put out feelers and instead went out with Hari for a wee catch-up, and on to her mate's birthday drinks. I love Hari to pieces, and her efforts to get me a nice young lady are second-to-none, and I was looking forward to seeing her as we hadn't had one of these for a little while.
She also mentions that it is an Antipodean Girl's Birthday on Waitangi day and that there may be some drunken single lady action going on.
(Of course, when people say 'drunken single lady action' to me now, I only get visions of this... http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RJlPEHL85Ig, but that's by the by. Hopefully the single ladies in question would be nothing like this)
So, we have a beer in a Smith's pub first in between a mid-treatment transsexual and a lady (they were obviously 'together' but to this moment I am still puzzled as to the logistics. The transsexual was going from man to lady, so I am just trying to figure out what goes where and indeed if it would still be around for it to go there, afterwards. Ahem.) where we have a brief catch-up. Her new script has been well-received by people that matter and things are generally OK with me, so hurrah. We finish our drinks and head off to some God-awful pretentious, overpriced shit hole in Covent Garden to celebrate Amanda turning 24.
Now, by and large, I love Covent Garden, but we went to some underground bunker that wasn't a million miles away from the Mos Eisley Cantina from Star Wars IV that epitomised all that is wrong with central London.
1) It's called Detroit. WHY? What possible link with America's 'Motor Town' is there? It's 20ft underground, there are curved stone walls, it's poorly lit, the DJ has just got the sack from Yates's on Leicester Square because of the turgid 10 year old R&B he was playing.... it was about as 'Detroit' as I am.
2) The bar staff are cwnts. All of them. Admittedly, I don't have tits, but PLEASE don't make that the only criterium for deciding whether you say 'please' and 'thank you' to your clientele.
3) It looked like someone had opened a can of 'wanker' in there. Wall-to-wall Rude Boys, girls who believe that two strips of rubber covering their 'decency' constitutes a dress... dear me.
Anyway, moaning aside, we find Amanda and her posse, we do the kisses on cheeks and we sit down amongst strangers and try to make nice.
Now, I'm no Vanilla Ice, but I still have a modicum of 'cool' about me. However, these guys made me look like KanYe fucking West. It was like the groovy gang's annual outing. Lovely people, definitely, and I am certain that none of them are so bitter and twisted that they spurt their annoyances out on the Internet, but ridiculously boring. I was getting through £4 bottles of Asahi (DON'T) like they were going out of fashion, just to keep myself sane...
...at this point, Kinky Steve texts me to tell me that his date is going terribly and that I am to provide a 9:20pm get-out phone call and that he will come and join me and H for a beer. JOY!
Back to Detroit (still no sign of Stevie Wonder, Aretha Franklin), though and the Groovy Gang are showing each other photos on their phones of them playing in the snow and I am looking around for any kind of twine or string to hang myself with. At this point, someone breaks off from the GG and starts chatting to me.
She is a beautiful lady, too. We chat, we laugh. She is 'Ana', from Latvia, and works with H. We are getting on famously. H's eyes light up at this point and immediately gets on the phone to the vicar, reserves the Church and sets about finding a hat. Then Ana gets up to go and powder her nose and it is at that point that we all see that she only has one arm.
Call me shallow, but that did it for me. I KNOW it makes me a bad person, and I accept this but I couldn't bring myself to do it. You should not date a woman if the first thing that comes to mind is a catalogue of bad, distasteful gags.
Thankfully, she didn't fancy me, and it stopped me from having to make any kind of decision (although Haydon and Scouse Nick got 'what do I do!?' text messages, just in case), but we carried on chatting and she is a lovely and charming girl. She certainly got a big hand from me.
(SEE? I'm a BAD person)
It gets to 9:20pm and Kinky Steve's phone is now turned off meaning that he is turning the Kink up to 11 and he shall not be joining me for a drink. Fuck - I've just realised that he's Quagmire from Family Guy. Anyway, I leave him to it and return to my conversation with Hari and the Bandit. Anyway, it gets to 10pm and H ups and leaves, meaning I am left on my lonesome with Stumpy and the Groovy Gang. Although she chooses this opportunity to tell me that she has set me and Ana up.
Ana's coming over to hers and Nick's for a computer game afternoon and I am to attend as well. Computer games. A generally two-handed activity.
Fuck me, I hope they've got a Wii...
I cannot bring myself to do it, so up and leave, wish Amanda a Happy Birthday and Waitangi Day. At this point, the Groovy Gang are in full flow and have excluded me, even Ana. I smirk to myself, make my excuses and take a slow walk to Holborn where I catch my train and return home, where a Pot Noodle and Jonathan Ross awaits.
My life is still a sitcom.
This weekend brings laziness and lounging around the flat, housework, the gym, the North London Derby (Arsene, if you're reading this then please, please, PLEASE, beat Spurs. The only thing worse than a Spurs fan is a smug Spurs fan) and I am on a date with a PhD student called Clare. I will of course, update once I get to the bottom of it all.
Much love xx
So, on to Friday night. I normally go out with Kinky Steve and Andy on Fridays, but this week both were unavailable. I put out feelers and instead went out with Hari for a wee catch-up, and on to her mate's birthday drinks. I love Hari to pieces, and her efforts to get me a nice young lady are second-to-none, and I was looking forward to seeing her as we hadn't had one of these for a little while.
She also mentions that it is an Antipodean Girl's Birthday on Waitangi day and that there may be some drunken single lady action going on.
(Of course, when people say 'drunken single lady action' to me now, I only get visions of this... http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RJlPEHL85Ig, but that's by the by. Hopefully the single ladies in question would be nothing like this)
So, we have a beer in a Smith's pub first in between a mid-treatment transsexual and a lady (they were obviously 'together' but to this moment I am still puzzled as to the logistics. The transsexual was going from man to lady, so I am just trying to figure out what goes where and indeed if it would still be around for it to go there, afterwards. Ahem.) where we have a brief catch-up. Her new script has been well-received by people that matter and things are generally OK with me, so hurrah. We finish our drinks and head off to some God-awful pretentious, overpriced shit hole in Covent Garden to celebrate Amanda turning 24.
Now, by and large, I love Covent Garden, but we went to some underground bunker that wasn't a million miles away from the Mos Eisley Cantina from Star Wars IV that epitomised all that is wrong with central London.
1) It's called Detroit. WHY? What possible link with America's 'Motor Town' is there? It's 20ft underground, there are curved stone walls, it's poorly lit, the DJ has just got the sack from Yates's on Leicester Square because of the turgid 10 year old R&B he was playing.... it was about as 'Detroit' as I am.
2) The bar staff are cwnts. All of them. Admittedly, I don't have tits, but PLEASE don't make that the only criterium for deciding whether you say 'please' and 'thank you' to your clientele.
3) It looked like someone had opened a can of 'wanker' in there. Wall-to-wall Rude Boys, girls who believe that two strips of rubber covering their 'decency' constitutes a dress... dear me.
Anyway, moaning aside, we find Amanda and her posse, we do the kisses on cheeks and we sit down amongst strangers and try to make nice.
Now, I'm no Vanilla Ice, but I still have a modicum of 'cool' about me. However, these guys made me look like KanYe fucking West. It was like the groovy gang's annual outing. Lovely people, definitely, and I am certain that none of them are so bitter and twisted that they spurt their annoyances out on the Internet, but ridiculously boring. I was getting through £4 bottles of Asahi (DON'T) like they were going out of fashion, just to keep myself sane...
...at this point, Kinky Steve texts me to tell me that his date is going terribly and that I am to provide a 9:20pm get-out phone call and that he will come and join me and H for a beer. JOY!
Back to Detroit (still no sign of Stevie Wonder, Aretha Franklin), though and the Groovy Gang are showing each other photos on their phones of them playing in the snow and I am looking around for any kind of twine or string to hang myself with. At this point, someone breaks off from the GG and starts chatting to me.
She is a beautiful lady, too. We chat, we laugh. She is 'Ana', from Latvia, and works with H. We are getting on famously. H's eyes light up at this point and immediately gets on the phone to the vicar, reserves the Church and sets about finding a hat. Then Ana gets up to go and powder her nose and it is at that point that we all see that she only has one arm.
Call me shallow, but that did it for me. I KNOW it makes me a bad person, and I accept this but I couldn't bring myself to do it. You should not date a woman if the first thing that comes to mind is a catalogue of bad, distasteful gags.
Thankfully, she didn't fancy me, and it stopped me from having to make any kind of decision (although Haydon and Scouse Nick got 'what do I do!?' text messages, just in case), but we carried on chatting and she is a lovely and charming girl. She certainly got a big hand from me.
(SEE? I'm a BAD person)
It gets to 9:20pm and Kinky Steve's phone is now turned off meaning that he is turning the Kink up to 11 and he shall not be joining me for a drink. Fuck - I've just realised that he's Quagmire from Family Guy. Anyway, I leave him to it and return to my conversation with Hari and the Bandit. Anyway, it gets to 10pm and H ups and leaves, meaning I am left on my lonesome with Stumpy and the Groovy Gang. Although she chooses this opportunity to tell me that she has set me and Ana up.
Ana's coming over to hers and Nick's for a computer game afternoon and I am to attend as well. Computer games. A generally two-handed activity.
Fuck me, I hope they've got a Wii...
I cannot bring myself to do it, so up and leave, wish Amanda a Happy Birthday and Waitangi Day. At this point, the Groovy Gang are in full flow and have excluded me, even Ana. I smirk to myself, make my excuses and take a slow walk to Holborn where I catch my train and return home, where a Pot Noodle and Jonathan Ross awaits.
My life is still a sitcom.
This weekend brings laziness and lounging around the flat, housework, the gym, the North London Derby (Arsene, if you're reading this then please, please, PLEASE, beat Spurs. The only thing worse than a Spurs fan is a smug Spurs fan) and I am on a date with a PhD student called Clare. I will of course, update once I get to the bottom of it all.
Much love xx
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