Friday Night Shenanigans Post-Mortem
Hey there,
Last night was a weird ride. I returned to the flat to find that Masao, and a Japanese, French and Czech students had finished their meal and were watching The Man With the Golden Gun, a very ordinary Bond Movie starring the very ordinary Roger Moore.
Then they announce that they are on their way to a party somewhere where someone will be DJing, and invite me along. I care less about DJing, but I haven't been to a Party in Dogs Years, and I really would like to meet some new people, or at least break out of the groove that I've been in.
So we all take the tube to Tottenham Court Road, where I spot a girl wearing a Betty Blue style shirt.
'Hey, I like that shirt' says I.
the girl looks at me, as if to say, Huh? Who the fuck are you? This time it annoys me.
'Oh, that's right, I forgot for a moment: We're in London and we can't talk to Strangers.'
The girl pauses:
'Is your name Jason?' I think that I detect an Australian Accent.
'Yeah, how did you know that?'
'I'm from Brisbane, my name is Hanna. You wouldn't recognise me.'
I don't recognise her. I want to get to the bottom of the conundrum, but the Students are about to jump on a bus, and since they are my link to said party, I break off and follow them.
The bus ride takes us to Stoke Newington, which as far as I know is in the Borough of Hackney.
The nice part of Hackney. Or Nicer. I'm not sure. Sometime I'd like to explore Hackney, but I have it on Authority that it would be good to exercise Strength in Numbers.
Anyways, I'm looking out the window of the bus the whole time. We pass Kings Cross, where one of the bombs went off. People have left a bundles of flowers. The there are still police and ambulances. There is a media tent on the otherside of the street. Some of the Streets are blocked off.
I remember the Chinese Curse: May you live in Interesting Times.
Anyways, the bus keeps winding North.
We get to our stop, wander up to the pub, and find that Denis' (the French Guy) friend has finished DJing and is chilling with friends while the staff wipe the tables and shut up the bar. Denis is from France, where shutting a bar at 11 is considered bizarre behaviour, or worse, English.
Still, the DJ is an Irish lady who spins sets of Hip Hop and sets of Soul (old Soul, nice!) and she used to teach at Masao's English College. She is good people, and there are a few cool people hanging around.
The after party party seems to be going on at a Latin Club down the street. The Five of us wander down, look through the windows, but being short of cash and feeling tired, we decided to pass.
(If I had more than £5 in my pocket at that time, I would have goin in, but I had neglected to stop at an ATM).
So we chill at a bus-stop until a bus comes carrying people back to Tottenham Court Road. I see some punks with dreads and some stuff, and I make a mental note to Check Out Stoke-Newington at a later date.
The Bus takes us down past Angel and Islington, and I recognise the drag that I explored a week or so before (see previous blogs about exploring stuff).
Back to Soho. Everybody else goes home, but I prefer to kick around a bit longer, see what I can see.
I argue with the bloke that insists that everyone who calls themselves fans of Metal and Hardcore should patronise clubs like ROCK and the like. I don't agree with his Crusade, nor with his assertion that it is down to me personally to support Rock and Metal clubs. He irritates me with his unbending adherence to a position that doesn't interest me.
I argue with him until he sees four or five tall blokes with the same haircut who possibly are in the same band (possibly Towers of London, but I can't be sure), and decides that they are worth more attention than me. He is probably right, and I as turn to go he is leading down the street to some place or other.
Tottenham Court Road to Leicester Square: get a slice of pizza from the Pizza Hut. Wander towards the Tower Records direction. See the tall bloke from Norway or Sweden doing his club rep thing. The Square is actually pretty empty compared to most Fridays.
A Transexual with huge implants looks and me and proclaims 'Oh My Gawed! somethign something etc' I couldn't make out the rest, but I don't think she approved of my style of dress. Disturbing coming from someone in Gold Lame (that's La-may, but the straight reading could apply).
In a random direction mood, I turn left and follow the cool buildings until I find myself on the edge of a huge park, overlooked by various Historical Military commanders (Duke of Wellington and one or two slightly more foppish looking Naval leaders).
I find the Institute of Contempory Art or something, and hear a good nature arguement between an Irishman and an English girl about the huge Union Jacks that line the street that borders the park.
I walk the length of the street and back, looking at the antique fire-engines.
I wander some more, and find myself back in Leicester Square. London has a weird way of Folding Space back on itself.
On a side note, sometimes I remember seeing something and I wonder if I could still find that place, or that thing. Sometimes I realise that said thing was there a decade ago, so it probably isn't now. Then again, this being london, shops can move around, pubs can change hands, but the basic structure stays the same.
Sometimes I also have to sit down and wonder whether the thing that I remember was really there the way I remember seeing it, or whether I just dreamed it. These things can twist my head.
Back to the story:
In Leicester Square I get talking to some Spanish Students in London for the summer. Picking one girl as a Left-wing political type I show her my copy of The Motorcycle Diaries, and she is impressed. She speaks pretty good English. The others speak English in the range of Patchy to None-at-All. My Spanish is purely for entertainment Value, so I can't judge.
I wind up hanging with them for a couple of hours. The most amusing incident of the night: while I'm sitting with these kids an English guy tries to give me a pile of change, which the Spanish Girl accepts.
Am I dressed to badly that people think I'm Homeless?
Surely my near new converse would indicate that I'm not.
Still the Spanish Kids are happy, because now they can buy some pizza.
After hanging for a few hours, I wander back to Tottenham Court Road and take the Night Bus, chasing it down the street, and being temporarily transfixed by that beautiful face on a girl at the bus-stop.
It is already light when I get home. I do some reading and go to bed.
Today I had still more weird dreams, one involving running through peoples houses and another about fighting an oversized Spider/Praying Mantis creature with a book.
Tonight? No plans. Watch TV and Fry up a steak. Try to find my phone, which I lost soon after waking up.
Over and out.
Last night was a weird ride. I returned to the flat to find that Masao, and a Japanese, French and Czech students had finished their meal and were watching The Man With the Golden Gun, a very ordinary Bond Movie starring the very ordinary Roger Moore.
Then they announce that they are on their way to a party somewhere where someone will be DJing, and invite me along. I care less about DJing, but I haven't been to a Party in Dogs Years, and I really would like to meet some new people, or at least break out of the groove that I've been in.
So we all take the tube to Tottenham Court Road, where I spot a girl wearing a Betty Blue style shirt.
'Hey, I like that shirt' says I.
the girl looks at me, as if to say, Huh? Who the fuck are you? This time it annoys me.
'Oh, that's right, I forgot for a moment: We're in London and we can't talk to Strangers.'
The girl pauses:
'Is your name Jason?' I think that I detect an Australian Accent.
'Yeah, how did you know that?'
'I'm from Brisbane, my name is Hanna. You wouldn't recognise me.'
I don't recognise her. I want to get to the bottom of the conundrum, but the Students are about to jump on a bus, and since they are my link to said party, I break off and follow them.
The bus ride takes us to Stoke Newington, which as far as I know is in the Borough of Hackney.
The nice part of Hackney. Or Nicer. I'm not sure. Sometime I'd like to explore Hackney, but I have it on Authority that it would be good to exercise Strength in Numbers.
Anyways, I'm looking out the window of the bus the whole time. We pass Kings Cross, where one of the bombs went off. People have left a bundles of flowers. The there are still police and ambulances. There is a media tent on the otherside of the street. Some of the Streets are blocked off.
I remember the Chinese Curse: May you live in Interesting Times.
Anyways, the bus keeps winding North.
We get to our stop, wander up to the pub, and find that Denis' (the French Guy) friend has finished DJing and is chilling with friends while the staff wipe the tables and shut up the bar. Denis is from France, where shutting a bar at 11 is considered bizarre behaviour, or worse, English.
Still, the DJ is an Irish lady who spins sets of Hip Hop and sets of Soul (old Soul, nice!) and she used to teach at Masao's English College. She is good people, and there are a few cool people hanging around.
The after party party seems to be going on at a Latin Club down the street. The Five of us wander down, look through the windows, but being short of cash and feeling tired, we decided to pass.
(If I had more than £5 in my pocket at that time, I would have goin in, but I had neglected to stop at an ATM).
So we chill at a bus-stop until a bus comes carrying people back to Tottenham Court Road. I see some punks with dreads and some stuff, and I make a mental note to Check Out Stoke-Newington at a later date.
The Bus takes us down past Angel and Islington, and I recognise the drag that I explored a week or so before (see previous blogs about exploring stuff).
Back to Soho. Everybody else goes home, but I prefer to kick around a bit longer, see what I can see.
I argue with the bloke that insists that everyone who calls themselves fans of Metal and Hardcore should patronise clubs like ROCK and the like. I don't agree with his Crusade, nor with his assertion that it is down to me personally to support Rock and Metal clubs. He irritates me with his unbending adherence to a position that doesn't interest me.
I argue with him until he sees four or five tall blokes with the same haircut who possibly are in the same band (possibly Towers of London, but I can't be sure), and decides that they are worth more attention than me. He is probably right, and I as turn to go he is leading down the street to some place or other.
Tottenham Court Road to Leicester Square: get a slice of pizza from the Pizza Hut. Wander towards the Tower Records direction. See the tall bloke from Norway or Sweden doing his club rep thing. The Square is actually pretty empty compared to most Fridays.
A Transexual with huge implants looks and me and proclaims 'Oh My Gawed! somethign something etc' I couldn't make out the rest, but I don't think she approved of my style of dress. Disturbing coming from someone in Gold Lame (that's La-may, but the straight reading could apply).
In a random direction mood, I turn left and follow the cool buildings until I find myself on the edge of a huge park, overlooked by various Historical Military commanders (Duke of Wellington and one or two slightly more foppish looking Naval leaders).
I find the Institute of Contempory Art or something, and hear a good nature arguement between an Irishman and an English girl about the huge Union Jacks that line the street that borders the park.
I walk the length of the street and back, looking at the antique fire-engines.
I wander some more, and find myself back in Leicester Square. London has a weird way of Folding Space back on itself.
On a side note, sometimes I remember seeing something and I wonder if I could still find that place, or that thing. Sometimes I realise that said thing was there a decade ago, so it probably isn't now. Then again, this being london, shops can move around, pubs can change hands, but the basic structure stays the same.
Sometimes I also have to sit down and wonder whether the thing that I remember was really there the way I remember seeing it, or whether I just dreamed it. These things can twist my head.
Back to the story:
In Leicester Square I get talking to some Spanish Students in London for the summer. Picking one girl as a Left-wing political type I show her my copy of The Motorcycle Diaries, and she is impressed. She speaks pretty good English. The others speak English in the range of Patchy to None-at-All. My Spanish is purely for entertainment Value, so I can't judge.
I wind up hanging with them for a couple of hours. The most amusing incident of the night: while I'm sitting with these kids an English guy tries to give me a pile of change, which the Spanish Girl accepts.
Am I dressed to badly that people think I'm Homeless?
Surely my near new converse would indicate that I'm not.
Still the Spanish Kids are happy, because now they can buy some pizza.
After hanging for a few hours, I wander back to Tottenham Court Road and take the Night Bus, chasing it down the street, and being temporarily transfixed by that beautiful face on a girl at the bus-stop.
It is already light when I get home. I do some reading and go to bed.
Today I had still more weird dreams, one involving running through peoples houses and another about fighting an oversized Spider/Praying Mantis creature with a book.
Tonight? No plans. Watch TV and Fry up a steak. Try to find my phone, which I lost soon after waking up.
Over and out.
posted by the.exile at 6:54 pm
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