agentblack

Boom Boom

Friday night was epic. I didn't want to go out at all, but was dragged out by my brother. The original plan was a night frequenting the drinking dens of Romford, jewel of the south east, which generally means;

#1
I get disgusted by the filth scum of humanity that surrounds me, and sink into a black sulk, and begin to long for sparkling shining people with well proportioned faces, refined dress sense, and long strong and straight limbs, who can hold intelligent and eloquent discourse on a variety of subject. They will have smooth and clear skin, that is clean and glows with a aura of good health, no doubt fuelled by plenty of exercise and wholesome organic food. They will smell faintly of coffee and cinnamon.

#2
I talk to pretty sparky girls, and spend my time flirting and ripping the piss out of the mutants that drift around slackjawed like social jellyfish.

By the end of the night I'm frustrated and bored and spiteful.

So I wasn't amazingly enthusiastic.

HOWEVER.

The call came through that the location had changed. We were going for a run into London.

This involved public transport. I disloike public transport, mostly because I'm the sort of person who is On The Guestlist. It was alleviated a little by the presence of a man with a facial tattoo, ("Wow, Are you a Maori? You're Not? Oh... You look like a bit of a twat then, don't you.") An some guy trying to pick up a girl using palm reading.

This caused much consternation. He didn't even try and impress her by showing her how many press ups he could do. Modern mankind is obviously in a very dire state. Curse you Germaine Greer.

Once we were in London, we met up with the the rest of the crew, and proceeded to drift around East London bars. We mostly meanadered around Shoreditch, but the trendy moolaits were out in force at some point, so I think we wandered into Hoxton as well. There were a lot of Hawksmoor churches looming up around corners, which set me on edge a bit, until Handsome G, the only other person in our group who has read From Hell, started making jokes about cutting up whores. Ahhh... Humour.

Trendy East London winds me up a bit, because... I dunno. It's the kind of thing I can't really make sense of, or put easily into words, but a fairly strong element of it is that the East End has always been a complete shit hole, and that it's populated now by part time bohemian twats called Nathan and Jemima slumming it with their trust fund and digging the authenticity of it all gets my back up. Parts of East Lodon are still poverty traps, sinkholes of human experience, like the Commerical Row and Bethnal Green, but you can see the arty kids slumming there. Maybe it's because I went out with one of them, (Daddy owned land, went to St Martins, Parent's paid her rent...) I dunno.

Equally, it might have been because afored mentioned Jemimas and Nathans kept approaching me and trying to by coke off me. I don't think I look like a drug dealer. I can read and I wear tracksuits to the gym only. Anyway....

We ended up in the Mean Fiddler, mocking the metal mutants, and generally ripping on the place. Everyone must have hated us, probably because we could stand upright and didn't take it at all seriously.

It depresses me that metal kids still think that taking their shirts off and doing karate on the dance floor is acceptable clubbing behaviour.

We were going to go home, because the music was shit, and there weren't enough pretty girls. And then they started playing halfway decent music, and we hit the dance floor, and proceeded to have the best time ever.
Dancing to shit music and shouting "ESSEX!LAHNDAHN!" equals good time.

I got off the dance floor at somepoint, with the intention of talking to the scarce pretty girls. I tend to do better when I'm not on my hometurf, because there isn't a chance that I'm going to run into the girl again, therefore, no fear of knockback. Huzzah.

I wandered for a bit, and then started talking to a girl about her shoes, I think (Brothel Creepers, leapord skin, ACES.) Turns out that she was into Tiger Army, who I think are brilliant, and The Brian Setzer Orchestra (McKitten got a silent prayer of thanks).

We were getting along marvellously when I noticed her glance off to my side, with a curious and vaguely alarmed look on her face. I turned to see Farmboy hovering at my elbow, like a squat bearded stoner, which is a happy coincidence, because he is a squat bearded stoner.

Farmboy is a friend of my brother, and I'm convinced that he's borderline autistic. I get on fairly well with him, because I've steered him towards fine cartoons like harvey Birdman and The Venture Bros.

Farmboy doesn't like dancing, doesn't like girls. I'm still not sure why he came along. He's happiest hunched in front of a computer playing Half Life 2.

"What's Up?"
"Bored"
"Oh"

At this point, the dancefloor had achieved the rare state known as Hollywood Club to myself and my brother. Real life clubs always let you down.
They're full of sulking bastards with bad posture and worse skin. No one can dress. The dance floor is empty, except for a fat girl and her ugly mates trying far too hard to show everyone what a fun fun fun time they're having, hoping you don't guess how empty and dead they feel inside.

Hollywood Clubs are so much better. They're full of pretty grinning people, dancing like they just don't care, and the lighs flash and sparkle off their beautiful clothes. Only occasionally do real clubs achieve that state.

This was like a metal version of that.

But Farmboy doesn't like dancing. And he continued to hang around my shoulder, nay, my neck, like a fucking Albatross, interrupting with snappy little lines of dialogue like "When do you think we'll be leaving then?"

Looking back, I don't blame the girl with the leopard print brothel creepers from walking off, but I blame myself for not breaking farmboy's jaw. But never mind.

We danced away to the techno stuff that metal clubs invariably play, although I'm impressed they didn't play that track from the Blood party bit in Blade. We sacked it once they started back up with the Korn and Limp Bizkit megamix that had all the kids moshing away earnestly. Not a trace of irony in the whole crowd. Sad.

Exciting the Club, we headed into soho and found a chinese resturant that was happy to serve us plates of crispy duck and squid, washed down with hot sake at half three in the morning. 90 worth in fact.
I always get a bit nervous around hot sake, not least because it smells like sweaty drunk babies. It tends to bring out the latent Toshiro Mifune reflex in my brother.

Everything went well though, and we exited happy, well fed, and smelling of drunken sweaty babies.

Then it was the usual trials of getting a night bus that went to Romford, then a numbed with cold zombie stagger to the Blackmobile. By the time we'd dropped people off and gotten home, it was half six. Aces.