Thursday, December 29, 2005

No, not a hint of bitterness

So, Christmas in my part of East London was spent in reverence of the Greek god Dionysius. It was depraved, debauched, and the less said about it the better. The only festive photographs to escape my censorship clutches are on Flickr.

For New Year's Eve, well, I hope to spend it in front of a television (yet to be purchased) ignoring its very existence, hoping everyone is having a really rotten time, and avoiding stewing on the fact that it is my seventh wedding anniversary and I am now separated and 30 and losing my once-were dashing young chipmunk looks. Either that or I'll obliterate myself and go hit on hot 20-25 year olds to try to prove my worth (as a once-were dashing young chipmunk meets Mrs Robinson). Yes, 2005 was a total motherfucker of a year for me, and I look forward to waking up to 2006. Which, I assume, can only be better.

Happy new year!

Sunday, December 11, 2005

I can't change, I can't change

Last night, my friend Amy put on a spread of canapes and really good champagne (direct from a weekender loading up the family sedan in Francais) for a gaggle of us Australian girls working for the frosty bird. Of course, we all got ridiculously drunk and (for no reason in particular) started calling one another by our last names in sentences starting with 'Oi!' But the best thing was watching music videos, something I miss since I am frighteningly sans a television. After lots of ridiculous Beastie Boys imitations, whereby I mused, "I wish I could always move in slow-mo and only ever be seen through a fish-eye lense!" and demanded that we act out our Beastie moves in the tea room on Monday, on came The Verve's 'Bittersweet Symphony'.

Agog at the screen, G shouted:

"Golden Fried Chicken!!!"

"OMG!" I agreed in annoying acronym, "Dad's Hair Salon!!!"

"Hoxton ElectroVision!!!!" she zinged.

"Pie and mash with the wretched viscous gravy shop!!!" I flung back, stodgily.

And, as we embarked on a good old "And I'm a million different people from one day to the next ..." sing along, G and I marvelled that this acclaimed continuous-shot music video was filmed on Hoxton Street, starting at our street, the one with Golden Fried Chicken on the corner.


In other news:

Friday night is the company Christmas party at the Imperial War Museum. The theme is Bond, James Bond. I am wondering if turning up in a satin sheet, false lashes peeling off like eyebrow bound caterpillars, and rumpled hair a la a Bond girl post-Bond shag will have me - for better or for worse - forever labelled: 'That slapper who showed up to the Christmas party at the Imperial War Museum in a satin sheet'.

Monday, December 05, 2005

Stranger danger

Well, the night started well. I was out and had a quiet couple of glasses of wine with friends over a curry, then went to meet R-baby at a bar in Soho where she was dj for part of the eve. I bought another drink, talked to some randoms about how lovely my hat was, THEN ever-so-wisely left my glass on the bar, wandered off for a while, had some more of my drink, danced a bit, started feeling very strange, danced some more, had yet some more of my drink, felt very very strange, lurched into the dj booth, sat down, passed out, and woke up three hours later to R playing 'Back In Black' before spontaneously vomitting into my own (formerly) lovely hat.

"Someone spiked my drink" sounds so fifties-Doris-Day-movie, but, unless I've developed an unlikely intolerence for a two-and-a-half glasses of red wine, I think that's what happened in this, my living 'How Will You Feel Tomorrow?'* ad.


*Australian National Drug and Alcohol Offensive ads aimed at teenagers in the early 90s which my friends and I, entirely missing the point, used to laugh at, regularly hooting such utterances as:

"HAHAHAHAHAHA! That's what YOU looked like after you drank all that cooking sherry stashed in your childhood Mickey Mouse vacuum flask, pashed Blah Blah after leaping out of a tree (all the while aiming to land on his better-looking, more pash-enticing best friend), and then vomitted all over your shoes. HAHAHAAHAHAHAH!"

Post script: I came back to this one thinking it needed more excitement, or to be somehow punchier at least. But really, everything falls flat after you've spewed in your own hat.