Rawk!

Just to warn you, this is going to be a looong entry. It's been an eventful couple of days...

My assessment of the weekend turned out to be more or less accurate. It all started on Friday night, when my flatmate Kat and I decided to celebrate the fact that we’re off to Portugal in a week by necking two bottles of wine and half a bottle of 10-year-old port.

Saturday morning dawned. I had a port hangover. My head felt like it had a Frenchman living in it. A trip to Domali’s for a cheese, salami and roasted pepper toastie the size of a doorstep and two café lattes soon sorted me out though. A word on this café – Kat and I have been going there every weekend for 3 years. We no longer need the menu to order. And yet the people who work there (with one notable exception) never say “hi, welcome back” or show any sign of recognizing us at all. This amazes me. I think that perhaps Domali’s only employs people with short-term memory loss. Or goldfish. Still, they do good toasties.

Another thing that helped get rid of the headache was the arrival of my XFM t-shirt. It is mighty fine. I put it on and felt stronger, sexier and ready to take on anything life threw at me. I could tell people were looking and thinking “Check out her t-shirt. She must rock like Gibraltar”. And indeed I did.

I wore the aforementioned t-shirt-of-glory to a dinner party in Deptford thrown by Niven. Also in attendance were Jarvis & Rooster. It started out as a very civilized affair – Niven had made a splendid risotto, there were roasted vegetables and we were dunking rustic bread in olive oil and basalmic vinegar. There was chocolate cheesecake with crème fraiche for dessert. We were also drinking copious amounts of wine. Which is why it all started to get a little messy…

Because the drinking games started. And Jarvis suggested we play “Ibble Dibble”, wherein if you mess up, you get an “obble dobble” on your face (a smear of burnt cork). I suck at this game at the best of times. But on Saturday I took it to a whole new level of suckiness. This is Jarvis, me and Niven about 5 minutes into playing:



As you can see, we're not very good at this game. Rooster, who took the picture, didn't have any obble-dobbles and was feeling a bit left out. So he smeared chocolate on his face, called it an "ibbly-dibbly" and a new rule was born.

Ten minutes later, I have no fewer than eleven obble-dobbles and five ibbly-dibblies. It's all going downhill. Then Rooster decides that a new substance needs to be added to the game. So he smears wholegrain mustard on my cheeks. I leap out of my chair like someone's put a firecracker under me and run around the kitchen shrieking "Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!", then I stand dousing my face in water from the kitchen sink. The others are understandably taken aback. So - I am allergic to mustard. Who knew? At least in the future I know to steer clear of any facepacks that have Colman's English Mustard as one of the ingredients.

By now it's gone midnight. But the party's just starting. Rooster, Jarvis and I jump in a cab and head off to a housewarming in Kings Cross. But on the way they start having a massive argument. Huge. So we get out of the cab and Jarvis makes to go home. Rooster slams him against a phone box. I decide I need some cigarettes. By the time I get back, they're all sweetness and light.

We eventually get to the party. Everyone is drunk, so we fit right in. Most of the rest of the evening is hazy. I recall the Dude trying to prevent his fiancee from falling out of a window. I recall Emily playing penny whistle, Rooster playing guitar and the rest of us singing while the Dude was trying to sleep (sorry Sean!). Everything else is a blur.

Sunday morning dawns. I have the most ferocious hangover in the history of mankind. My head feels like something has died in it. I'm in bed next to an enormous Scotsman (nothing happened, folks!) in the Dude and Rooster's flat. I can tell it's going to be a tough day.

We went for a fry-up. Didn't help. Rooster pointed out that I looked rough as biscuits and suggested that trying to get back down to South London might kill me. I was inclined to agree with him. So he & I went shopping in Camden. Shopping with a hangover is dangerous, because hangovers change your personality. Especially evil hangovers like this one. So I ended up buying an AC/DC t-shirt, a black skirt with a woman's face on it and a 1970s leather jacket that makes me look like a pimp. And some fishnets. Suddenly I am become Rawk Chick™.

By the time we get to the pub for Chad & Rooster's gig, the hangover has abated somewhat. I'm wearing all my new gear. I look like Venus in Furs (according to Roddy). Okay, so I'm really tired, but being around my Sunday night gang is giving me warm feelings inside. Easy Tiger are rocking the place as per usual. Everyone is singing along and banging on tables. It can't get much better than this.

Well, actually it can. Because Rooster & Chad call me up to do backing vocals on the Pixies' "Where Is My Mind" (I was doing the high-pitched "Ooh-ooh" bits). It has always been an ambition of mine to sing with a band. So woo and yay! I was surprisingly nervous actually (strange, when you consider what I do for a living), but I got into it by the second verse. And to my eternal joy, afterwards Chad suggested that I join them for some songs at future gigs. Please forgive the exclamation marks, but !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Even if it doesn't happen, I was bloody chuffed to be asked. *happy sigh* I was so glowy that I even chatted happily away to a nutter on the Tube on my way home.

So that was my weekend. I'd like to thank all the people I spent it with for making it so goddamn memorable. And I'd also like to thank the inventor of Anadin, without whom none of it would have been possible.
1.9.03 13:35


Cunning plan

In a rare display of effectiveness, I have arranged a food delivery from Sainsbury's every Monday. So now all the lucky folk in my office have a cornucopia of bread, peanut butter, Nutella, jam, biscuits & fruit to snack on. Aren't I good?

Actually, I'm just cunning. I realised that getting my lunch from the cafes round Clerkenwell is slowly bleeding me dry of moolah. So arrange a food delivery and "ta-dah!" - lunch provided free of cost. As long as I don't mind surviving on a diet of jam sandwiches and bananas...
1.9.03 14:44


Success

Hurrah! I've finally found out Ersatz Julian's real name...

Jeremy.

(Which is, incidentally, the name of my first boyfriend - well, I say boyfriend. We were twelve. But we did hang out and send each other Valentine's cards and he was the first boy I french kissed. God, but it was innocent back in the 80s).

At least I assume that's his name. When he rang up my Primo Skinny Latte on the till, it said "Your server is Jeremy" on the screen. So unless he was using someone else's key, he must be Jeremy. Q.E.D.

I sort of asked him along to the next Easy Tiger gig as well... We were talking about it and he said he knew the pub where they played, and I mumbled something about "if he was in the area one Sunday he should come along".

Maybe I should be a bit more daring and ask him properly. Stop being such a pussy. Hmmm. I think I'll ponder on that for a bit...
2.9.03 12:34


I must be unwell...

I've been uncharacteristically effective here at Clerkenwell Towers today. Achievements have included:
(1) Arranging a ComCab account for the top brass
(2) Finding cheap flights to New York for the head of Legal
(3) Organising two trees to be delivered next week to brighten up our rather Spartan foyer
(4) Updating the reception procedures
(5) Downloading The White Stripes' new album (not technically work, I know, but it will get played in reception, thereby creating a funky, yoof-orientated atmosphere. Which can only be a good thing).

And the day has flown by. Hmmm. Maybe I should try this "work" thing more often.

Naaah.
2.9.03 16:22


Meeeeeat

My office smells, bizarrely, of barbequed sausages. Why is this?

Unless some evil swine is trying to make me forsake my vegetarianism...

Mmmm, sausages. *slobber*

Although if someone did this to them then I think I'd sooner have a nice green salad...
3.9.03 13:16


Night-time movie-shows

I'm something of a vivid dreamer. And sometimes my dreams are weirdly prescient - for about a month before September 11th I was having nightmares about planes crashing into buildings. No joke.

I think I must get it off my mum, who has a little bit of the psychic about her (and I'm not talking about her uncanny ability to know who it was that spilt the Ribena on the living room rug). Back in the 70s, when she was about my age, she went on holiday to Spain with a bunch of friends. In those days, you couldn't get the English papers until the next day, so all news was a day late. Anyway, one day she comes down to breakfast and says "I had the weirdest dream..."

She'd dreamt that she was in the desert. She went into a tent, and inside was Prince Charles seated in an armchair watching television. My mum went and sat on his knee - on the TV was a state funeral.

So, all my mum's mates think she's bizarre. But the next day they get the papers and find out that Anwar Sadat of Egypt has been assassinated. And Prince Charles is the only member of the Royal Family who is going to the state funeral...

Freeeeaky.

This kind of means that I should at least consider the possibility that any dreams I have might come true.

Last night I dreamt I killed Helen Mirren by giving her stigmata, so that I could steal her lighthouse. Then I flew kites with Rooster.

Erm... Maybe that one won't come true. Though I am seeing Rooster tonight - if he gives me a kite then Helen Mirren's done for.
4.9.03 11:44


*Phew!*

The stationery cupboard in my office. It needed sorting. Years of neglect had brought it to a level of dereliction that even Quentin Crisp would have baulked at. It crouched in the corner of reception like a swollen, malevolent demon. Occasionally, noises would come from it - paper rustling, mysterious crashes. Almost as if it were a living organism. Legend has it that someone from accounts ventured in to get a stapler and was never seen again. Nobody wanted to go in there. Who knew what evil lurked within?

But I love a challenge. Like St George before the dragon I stood, a black binliner in my hand in place of a sword. Long I battled with the stationery. The cupboard fought back, once tipping a box of manila A4 boardback envelopes on my head. Yet I stood firm. Hours later, dusty but unbowed, I vanquished the beast. And lo, there was much feasting and merriment.

Artist's impression (I'm the one on the horse. Dunno who the bint in the skirt is)

I was rather disappointed not to find the doorway to Narnia at the back of the cupboard, though. Was looking forward to having tea with Mr Tumnus... *sigh*
4.9.03 15:22


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