Road to Transeuropean party conspiracy

What could probably be described as one of the most intriguing and exhausting weekends has just slipped by. Over the bank holiday, three day weekend i managed to see almost all of my London friend base, go to two most unusual parties, almost get reported as a missing person by my housemate wondercow, emerge with minimal hangover but sleep depravation and a sore throat....oh, and a large strange red bite mark on my neck..

Friday 28th May

I was in an absolutely foul mood on Friday morning. So bad that I could not face going out with my team for lunch, so I grabbed some sun, some serious striding down Regents Street and Raced the Green out of my gills. I returned to an empty office, which stayed that way until 5.30pm, as my team got drunk without me.. While I did end up regretting my absense, I did at least manage to arrange meeting up with some friends later that evening in Soho. Little did I know that missing lunch would fix the cast of my adventures for the next three days. My manager returned from the pub at 6pm, full of wine with a facial shine, promptly spilled a shitload (mug full) of coffee over the new artwork for a mailing, fell off her chair and sat on the floor legs akimber. I help her up, only to fall over myself, to her rosy laughs. She apologies for being pissy with me that morning and I feel guilty as I was in such a shit mood it was probably my fault anyway. She gets all lovy dovey and tells me she needs to be sick, so I ‘walk’ her to the ladies. JK- AKA =PLP. I leave her asleep on her desk and head off to St Annes church for a quiet drink to myself in the grounds and some quality time alone. (On Tuesday I found out she stayed asleep there for several hours threw up over the desk and floor before being helped out by late stayers.On Thursday stains still remain, as do the burn marks in the carpet from the bleach she used to remove the carrots.)

Skate Lovespangle, the Mir Space station (Emma), piano playing doctor Neil and I met with some other friends in the homeless snail salad drinking joint that is the Slug and Lettuce pub in Soho. After a few beverages we were in the weekend mood, and the need to find Kate a man became ever present. I grabbed her by the vodka red bulled hand and led her around the pub scouting for suitable candydates. However the spangle was being particularly choosy, and not especially in the mood for eloping with strange gentlemen. I pointed out several potential snogs to her but she declined an introduction. I eventually settled for introducing her to some bloke called Adam, drinking to celebrate his birthday. Kate gave him a birthday peck on the cheek, then we ran away.
Back upstairs, after a few more drinks (or sips there-of), a young surfy looking bloke caught Emma’s eye. Her eye had caught him red eyeded glancing Kate up and down. “I saw that!” she proclaimed and before long he and his American friend Rob had been put in the orbit of our circle.

Danny is one of those small quirky ‘surfer looking’ people who you cant help liking, and we all hit it off quite well. He told us he worked for Friends of the Earth, so he was alright in our books. After about ten minutes, he told us he and Rob were off to another bar, and we weren’t radically surprised when they invited us to their houseparty on Sunday. We thought it a little odd that they were inviting virtual strangers, but figured they could tell that we were sound fluffy cornflake folk, and not psychotic cereal slashers.

Kate and Mir slipped away before closing, and I went on to Burger King with Neil and a couple of his lady friends for a bite. (This is not the bite mentioned in the opening paragraph btw.) Inside the K we tucked into greasy yums, watched a Puerto Rican girl have a fight with the boucer because her fries weren’t ordered after her waiting 25 mins. She ended up kicking him in the legs and making dubious references to his mother and his genitals, though not in the same sentence you understand. We sat in our cardboard BK crowns above the stairs and smiled at a young couple who didn’t order any food but went straight downstairs hand in hand to ‘use’ the disabled toilet.
After the ladies left, Neil and I dashed down to Oxford Circus tube, Neil rolling under the turnstiles to avoid buying a ticket, with inimitable ease. We just made it to the platform as the doors on an arriving train opened and three girls jumped out, “go girls” we jived a’la Rikki Lake blood-letting spectator. We hopped onto the Victoria line train and rumbled off down the darkened grim tunnels of the North.

Neil began to get a twitching urge, one Heather had warned me about upon a previous journey. When Neil gets drunk, and sits on the tube, he gets this overwhelming primal urge to turn into a monkey boy, I guess he’s just regressing or something like that. Haps, he raised his arms from beside him in his seat, and grabbed the high side of the pale blue victoria pole to his left. Without hesitation he, swang his legs across the carriage, and upward, so his trainers interlocked with the high rung hand rail a’top the other side. His carriage bridge was swung, to let passing commuter boats through, by grasping the pole on which his feet hung. Now facing the opposite windows that reveal no light, upside down, his shirt hanging around his neck, he turned himself around and over 360 degrees, like a rolling clown, and dropped down into the seat facing his point of origin. His tube acrobatics weened an applause from stone faced commuters, but then evening commuters are always more pliable with their hand slaps than the dailies. It’s sometimes hard to believe Neil is a 28 year old Doctor of psychology the way he behaves, but then everyone needs a caveat, I guess his caveat is simply the word ‘doctor’. “One day” he says, “One day I’ll get on the crowded tube first thing in the morning, in my shiny suit, put down my broadsheet newspaper and briefcase, and spin like a grinning monkey from the rails, while stiffened suits don’t even glance.” The scary thing is I really believe he will do it.

As we came to Finsbury park, I placed my cardboard BK crown on the head of some purple jumpered jolly lady, and kissed her hand farewell. Her husband, nestling her other hand in his mitt, gave me a cautionary stare as I leaped from the (admittedly stationary, but what’s a bit of motionistic artistic licence for colour?) train carriage onto the platform outside.

We ran up the stairs and split from the station. Under the bridge we spotted a minion of blue posters for the new ‘Gay Dad’ album. Neil remembered how amusing Heather found this, her first time in traditional history steeped London, seeking cultural enlightenment and being bombarded with pink ‘Gay Dad’ fly-posters everywhere she went. Neil and I attempted to remove one sample of said large poster to mail Heather, sadly the paste was so strong that every one just tore to the right. Five minutes later we gave up leaving twelve giant Gay Dad posters in shreds, and went down the pub.

The Worlds End, a late licensed pub with live (think Grateful Dead) band and clientel that would appear whiter trashed than white trash at a trailer park. Long grey haired men in leather snogged snaggle toothed whores in silver skirts that hugged butts like ashtrays, and stilletoes that poked carpet like a newly released trouser weasil. We sat with our beers, avoiding the spilt beer and petrol, and did some heavy duty social spotting.

We got back to Neils late, and crashed on his bed with the Pru cycle tour on tv with the sound off, between us lay his drunk housemate, naked under her towelin blue dressing gown, she insisted I massaged her before she passed out. I believe she went to bed at around four am….


The foundations of the transeuropean party conspiracy What could probably be described as one of the most intriguing and exhausting weekends has just slipped by. Over the bank holiday, three day weekend i managed to see almost all of my London friend base, go to two most unusual parties, almost get reported as a missing person by my housemate wondercow, emerge with minimal hangover but sleep depravation and a sore throat....oh, and a large strange red bite mark on my neck.. Friday 28th May I was in an absolutely foul mood on Friday morning. So bad that I could not face going out with my team for lunch, so I grabbed some sun, some serious striding down Regents Street and Raced the Green out of my gills. I returned to an empty office, which stayed that way until 5.30pm, as my team got drunk without me.. While I did end up regretting my absense, I did at least manage to arrange meeting up with some friends later that evening in Soho. Little did I know that missing lunch would fix the cast of my adventures for the next three days. My manager returned from the pub at 6pm, full of wine with a facial shine, promptly spilled a shitload (mug full) of coffee over the new artwork for a mailing, fell off her chair and sat on the floor legs akimber. I help her up, only to fall over myself, to her rosy laughs. She apologies for being pissy with me that morning and I feel guilty as I was in such a shit mood it was probably my fault anyway. She gets all lovy dovey and tells me she needs to be sick, so I ‘walk’ her to the ladies. JK- AKA =PLP. I leave her asleep on her desk and head off to St Annes church for a quiet drink to myself in the grounds and some quality time alone. (On Tuesday I found out she stayed asleep there for several hours threw up over the desk and floor before being helped out by late stayers.On Thursday stains still remain, as do the burn marks in the carpet from the bleach she used to remove the carrots.) Skate Lovespangle, the Mir Space station (Emma), piano playing doctor Neil and I met with some other friends in the homeless snail salad drinking joint that is the Slug and Lettuce pub in Soho. After a few beverages we were in the weekend mood, and the need to find Kate a man became ever present. I grabbed her by the vodka red bulled hand and led her around the pub scouting for suitable candydates. However the spangle was being particularly choosy, and not especially in the mood for eloping with strange gentlemen. I pointed out several potential snogs to her but she declined an introduction. I eventually settled for introducing her to some bloke called Adam, drinking to celebrate his birthday. Kate gave him a birthday peck on the cheek, then we ran away. Back upstairs, after a few more drinks (or sips there-of), a young surfy looking bloke caught Emma’s eye. Her eye had caught him red eyeded glancing Kate up and down. “I saw that!” she proclaimed and before long he and his American friend Rob had been put in the orbit of our circle. Danny is one of those small quirky ‘surfer looking’ people who you cant help liking, and we all hit it off quite well. He told us he worked for Friends of the Earth, so he was alright in our books. After about ten minutes, he told us he and Rob were off to another bar, and we weren’t radically surprised when they invited us to their houseparty on Sunday. We thought it a little odd that they were inviting virtual strangers, but figured they could tell that we were sound fluffy cornflake folk, and not psychotic cereal slashers. Kate and Mir slipped away before closing, and I went on to Burger King with Neil and a couple of his lady friends for a bite. (This is not the bite mentioned in the opening paragraph btw.) Inside the K we tucked into greasy yums, watched a Puerto Rican girl have a fight with the boucer because her fries weren’t ordered after her waiting 25 mins. She ended up kicking him in the legs and making dubious references to his mother and his genitals, though not in the same sentence you understand. We sat in our cardboard BK crowns above the stairs and smiled at a young couple who didn’t order any food but went straight downstairs hand in hand to ‘use’ the disabled toilet. After the ladies left, Neil and I dashed down to Oxford Circus tube, Neil rolling under the turnstiles to avoid buying a ticket, with inimitable ease. We just made it to the platform as the doors on an arriving train opened and three girls jumped out, “go girls” we jived a’la Rikki Lake blood-letting spectator. We hopped onto the Victoria line train and rumbled off down the darkened grim tunnels of the North. Neil began to get a twitching urge, one Heather had warned me about upon a previous journey. When Neil gets drunk, and sits on the tube, he gets this overwhelming primal urge to turn into a monkey boy, I guess he’s just regressing or something like that. Haps, he raised his arms from beside him in his seat, and grabbed the high side of the pale blue victoria pole to his left. Without hesitation he, swang his legs across the carriage, and upward, so his trainers interlocked with the high rung hand rail a’top the other side. His carriage bridge was swung, to let passing commuter boats through, by grasping the pole on which his feet hung. Now facing the opposite windows that reveal no light, upside down, his shirt hanging around his neck, he turned himself around and over 360 degrees, like a rolling clown, and dropped down into the seat facing his point of origin. His tube acrobatics weened an applause from stone faced commuters, but then evening commuters are always more pliable with their hand slaps than the dailies. It’s sometimes hard to believe Neil is a 28 year old Doctor of psychology the way he behaves, but then everyone needs a caveat, I guess his caveat is simply the word ‘doctor’. “One day” he says, “One day I’ll get on the crowded tube first thing in the morning, in my shiny suit, put down my broadsheet newspaper and briefcase, and spin like a grinning monkey from the rails, while stiffened suits don’t even glance.” The scary thing is I really believe he will do it. As we came to Finsbury park, I placed my cardboard BK crown on the head of some purple jumpered jolly lady, and kissed her hand farewell. Her husband, nestling her other hand in his mitt, gave me a cautionary stare as I leaped from the (admittedly stationary, but what’s a bit of motionistic artistic licence for colour?) train carriage onto the platform outside. We ran up the stairs and split from the station. Under the bridge we spotted a minion of blue posters for the new ‘Gay Dad’ album. Neil remembered how amusing Heather found this, her first time in traditional history steeped London, seeking cultural enlightenment and being bombarded with pink ‘Gay Dad’ fly-posters everywhere she went. Neil and I attempted to remove one sample of said large poster to mail Heather, sadly the paste was so strong that every one just tore to the right. Five minutes later we gave up leaving twelve giant Gay Dad posters in shreds, and went down the pub. The Worlds End, a late licensed pub with live (think Grateful Dead) band and clientel that would appear whiter trashed than white trash at a trailer park. Long grey haired men in leather snogged snaggle toothed whores in silver skirts that hugged butts like ashtrays, and stilletoes that poked carpet like a newly released trouser weasil. We sat with our beers, avoiding the spilt beer and petrol, and did some heavy duty social spotting. We got back to Neils late, and crashed on his bed with the Pru cycle tour on tv with the sound off, between us lay his drunk housemate, naked under her towelin blue dressing gown, she insisted I massaged her before she passed out. I believe she went to bed at around four am….