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Rolling to the conspiracy... Saturday Oh for the lightness of white curtains, how their penetrability can sunitise the sleepiest of eyes and render much needed sleep voided. I believe I stole nearly four hours from captain sand before the moons antithesis punched his lights out. Hungover I drunk lots of water and waited for the good doctor to awaken., after which he played the supreme host cooking some awesome egg muffins to cradle the canyon belly. It was a gloriouslysunny day and we set up the large duvet out in the bag yard to catch some rays. No sooner had we sat down than the first speckles of rain sputtered upon us, resistance lasted all of thiry one raindrops, before we abandoned the plan and returned to whence we came. Early afternoon was spent pouring over photos of Heather and her visit to London, most of which I hadn’t seen. There were some fab ones of Heather and I, in soft orange focus at the Bram Stoker vampire pub and I placed an order with the good doctor for some doubles I felt I couldn’t live without, viva le womble. Beer soaked tie man Dave came around mid afternoon, by which time the sun had emerged again, grinning like a small child that has just probed a plastic spork in a plug socket. So we attempted the duvet and yard thang again, to better result. We cracked open a couple of bottles of fine wine and lapped at the afternoon. It lasted for at least a few hours, then the saphires of sky became ashen grey as if breathed on by a frosty breathed god. The three of us lay on our backs watching the grey sky swirl. The toll of two botles of red way heavily upon Dave who smiled a while then dozed it some. The grey sky began to rumble, and before long the faint flashes of distant lightning were turning into forked fingered freaks punching nearby. We held our breaths and cheered as each fork and clap flashed before us on the sky’s stage. The moment was expertly captured by the doctor in a classy moment of pure cheesiness. As the storm was reaching its crescendo, he put his cd player on full volume pointed the speakers out of his third floor room, and treated the neighbourhood to the Door’s ‘riders on the storm’, which taunted us between the clouds and the ground. Suddenly someone unzipped a cloud, and the heavens store was plunged upon us and the duvet making us dash indoors for our lives. Due to the afternoons storm folly, and the desire to leave the house only when the air was not a temporary hiding place for Atlantis I was running very late for a party I was due to attend. It was a Eurovision song contest party in a small flat in Clerkenwell London, the invite stated that all guests must be on time for the start at 7.45pm, and come as a European country. I was arriving as Germany in military uniform, however due to staying out all afternoon watching the thunderstorm arrived very late. To cover for my lateness I burnt and shredded much of my clothing covered myself in fake blood and pretended that my Hindenberg had been blown up over the Hanger Lane Gyratory system by the Serbian jury. I made my entrance spouting fake german vulgerisms and crying ‘sabotage’ during the scoring…..only to find everyone neatly dressed in shiny party clothes. Mightily embarassed I scarpered to the bathroom and changed. It was a Eurovision party, celebrating the cultural diversities of Europe in song, but all the guests were Glaswegians. We drank, chatted and played with the giant pampass grass in a vase. Towards the end of the evening I suddenly noticed to my joy, a chap in the ‘cartoon kids’ Belle & Sebastian T-shirt. Half drunk I pointed to him and cheered, he was a little startled at first, but soon realised what I was smiling at. I asked if he was on the Sinister mailing list, but he hadn’t heard of it. It turns out his name is Craig, and he actually plays football with lead singer Stuart Murdoch every week! He has an original copy of Tigermilk, and wants Stuart to sign it, but feels really bad and awkward about asking. I tried to persuade him that it would be a worthy addition to his life and advised on how to subtly gauge Stuarts opinion on whether or not he would be offended or irked. I told him as they were friends anyway, I’m sure he wouldn’t mind. I like to think he’ll get his signature this year. Frank, the party host, is a Eurovision obsessor, and has most of them on tape, heavily assisted by a friend who works in the BBC archives. After most of the guests had gone he insisted we watch the contest all over again on tape. By four am I was knackered, and hoped my Eurovison ordeal was drawing to a close, sadly it was decided to rewind the tape and play it once more from the beginning. I think I fell aslepp on the coach with a cushion in one ear, blanket stuffed in the other and the Swedish and Icelandic entries playing full blast on a permanent loop until 7am. For the record I think Iceland should have won. Sunday The transeuropean party conspiracy took place on bank holiday Sunday, in a twisted parallel to my previous bank holiday Sunday. Both were spent in Little Venice with Luke, and I found myself walking the exact same path along the canal at the exact same time at dusk, don’t ask me how I remember but I was even unintentionally wearing the same underwear! We knew only two people at the party, Danny and Rob, who we met in the Slug that Friday. Mir, Luke and I hung out in the kitchen with Lukes pal Anya, and drank wine. Wine bottles and pasta bowls were all around and people came in and out to refil and deposit. Several people asked us if it was our house, and we laughed a little. We got worried when we realised that very few people at the party actually knew anyone else there. I became convinced the party was some sort of sociological experiment with hidden cameras just like the Channel 4 ‘Tourist Trap’. Nearly everyone at the party had only met this guy, Danny, once in a pub and been invited. His house was full of complete strangers yet everyone was touchy feely and there was an overiding aura of fluid asexuality about the place…..and there was something calming in the brownies. Even more bizarrely, the nationality of guests was extraordinarily diverse, with people from Sweden, Israel, England, America, Ghana, Germany, Slovakia, Finland, France, and several eastern block nations. This was a converse twist the previous nights party, Scottish people celebrating Europe was replaced by European people celebrating nothing in particular. The scariest of all were the Norwegian girls. They were very beautiful and faerie looking, but there was this one girl called Camille who looked like Jodie Foster and ran around biting everyone, which was un-nervingly enjoyable, yet ultimately scarring, as red fleshed Luke would testify. It felt like we were all put together for some kind of test or audition for a new cult. The cult of Danny Elkham? I voiced my concern at the conspiracy and sure enough, the objective was exhumed. The hosts are holding a mass ‘blind date’ next Saturday and they were inviting selected people. I must have passed the test. They have emailed 100 people a questionaire on their lives and loves, and are going to match everyone up with a stranger. Then we all sit down for a banquet and either hit on each other or hit each other. I have a reservation that the real conspiracy is that it is in fact a scam, as we have to pay up front, but I have a blind trust in the people I met. I haven’t been on a blind date before let a lone a mass one, so am more than curious, if not apprehensive. We all crashed in Danny’s flat, Luke Emma and I snugly enveloped in a large red velvet curtain which had fallen from its railings. Come morning there was plenty of mess to clean up and I performed a spot of scalded fluff surgery on the ash marks on the soft grey carpet. Bank Holiday Monday After Sunday lunch by the canal we were spooked a little by two barges that sailed past. One was named Camille and the other Danny, we subsequently got lost following the canal back to Ladbroke grove. We chilled out in Kingston at a hippy fair, before spending a pleasant evening in Notting Hill, where we played Jenga dare. The loser having to perform embarassing acts. Luke was made to talk to the kitchen staff and ask for an apple as he desperately needed one. Luckily I escaped the task of putting a note on the travelling meal order monorail, supposedly from a waitress which asked out a member of the kitchen staff on a date. Which would have been very childish, but hey, I’m only 23, and I think kitchen staff need lovin, besides, who knows what may come from overloaded raisins and blind dates….. 
Kate's spin on the party... Back |
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