late party

After work on Friday Frank his missus and I took the tube to a boozer in Barbican where we met Harry and O to sup beers in the balmy early summer weather. I was utterly exhausted on account of my morning with IC and left relatively early to get some sleep. Of course, as is the way with such things I got a second wind just as I was preparing for bed but despite this still managed to sleep before 1am.

I got up late morning on Saturday. After breakfast James popped over for a cup of tea and a chat about his awful moving situation, he departed and I wrote an article for a friend. I then drove my fucking van over to my folks, I wasn’t prepared to pay for another year of parking permit as I’m trying to sell it and I stopped there for a while to catch up on various aspects of family existence –nothing to report save my mum treading on a wasp and having some aphid beast chewing her eyelid causing it to swell somewhat- and I took the train back into town to meet Myfwt and her bloke in a bar in Covent Garden.

By now it was 7.30, we 3 were due to arrive at a party in Fitzrovia but it was clear by the ordering of a second bottle that we were gong to be late. A cab arrived and we were whisked off to our destination all of us feeling jolly from the Shiraz. Just before we engaged with the throngs of guests we had another quick glass in a pub and arrived at 10-ish feeling squiffy but ready to go.

There were about 30 guests, most of whom I didn’t know. This didn’t matter though; full of social lubrication I ingratiated myself on the company, all of whom were very receptive to a bit of Piqued chit chat, and the evening flowed off into the small hours punctuated by cigarettes and crudités. By 4 am I was one of the last guests standing, not prepared to pay for a cab back to South London I stuck about until dawn chatting to the host who’d excelled herself in hospitality (and tolerance I should imagine) then walked off in the vague direction of the tube station.

At 5-ish am I arrived at Tottenham Court Road, I think, and along with a few others I settled down and waited for the gates to open. By now it was daylight, the last of the Saturday night revellers drifted in and out of my vision some asking me tube related questions and others the chance of a spare cigarette. Feeling safe I sat down in the mouth of the station and slept with my head between my knees for a while until finally the gates opened and I descended into the crepuscular light underground.

Being tired and a little refreshed I fell asleep and missing my connection. When I’d returned back to the connection I then fell asleep again and missing my stop and had to return back the way I’d came to get back home. It took fucking ages.

After I’d alighted I did some shopping, by the this time I was walking dead but managed to make it back, unpack, set the video for the Moto GP after which I slept until 4 in the afternoon. I took a bath I made a huge roast dinner, so vast was it that I spent the next few hours picking at it whilst I enjoyed the bike racing from Italy, Rossi won of course, so good to see him back on form…

Needless to say Sunday was written off in terms of actually achieving anything, I did make some adjustment to the article I’d done on Saturday but TV and a spot of Scarface were the only logical way forwards. I had an early night in complete sobriety; I only smoked one cigarette the entire day.

And that, dear reader, is how fucked I was.

This lot supported Ministry last week, bit annoyed I missed them…