Got a letter from C today. C is the token person who I write to and receive letters from in order that I can complain to whoever will listen that the art of letter writing is dead. "You think the art of letter writing is dead? Do YOU write letters?" "Well yes I do, ACTUALLY."
We are arranging a period of time that is agreeable to the both of us to dedicate to the not quite dead art of getting trolleyed and talking tosh. This nixes the plan I had of seeing M for his 30th birthday soiree, because it would be bloody stupid for me to go down to London, come back for a day or two then back down again. I'll tell him at some point but let's face it, if he was a proper friend by which I mean if he ignored his wife, job and child and read this blog, then he'd already know. To soften the blow, I have organised a little excursion to Wembley with M, M and C (what's a Wembley?) to see the mighty England take on the worst FIFA ranked team there is, San Marino. Anything less than a total and utter crucifixion of them will be a disaster. We have around 1600 times as many people to select the best footballers from, after all. Unfortunately, due to some sort of horrific administrative error, M, M and C will have to pay thirty pounds for the tickets instead of the promised 20. Then again, if they were proper friends and read this blog they'd already know. So I shall see M for the first time in ages, and then C for a couple days after that.
The last time I was in London drinking with C we managed to draw up a rudimentary plan to try and coincide our arrival at bars with their happy hour. London's not exactly cheap, and C insisted that we drink nothing but fancy cocktails. There was also an episode when we were at her old gaff, drinking and listening to Absolute 80's on the radio. We MAY have been playing the game where whatever the next track is, that's the song that makes you incontinent or horny, or that you lost your virginity to. Simpler than it sounds, for example, someone is nominated and a category is suggested, like the next song is the song you lost your virginity to, and then Culture Club's Do You Really Want To Hurt Me comes on, and that will always be known as the song that you lost your virginity to. The most spectacular example I ever came across of this was when A's song was "Free Nelson Mandela". I cannot think of a more excellent song to be deflowered to.
Sorry, got off track. So C and me were drinking and listening to the radio, wondering where we should go out. That's the problem with the big smoke, too much choice. Not sure who had the idea, but one of us suggested that "We go out go place 80's boom boom music all night." The other added "And we go 80's gladrags drape ourselves". It was a good night, we met up with a friendly bunch of (and my memory is a little sketchy) costume designers from the West End. Anyway, they plied us with alcohol and in return we provided them with delectable company. There are some photos SOMEWHERE, in which I'm wearing some suspiciously feminine new romantic get up or some such complete with make up. It seemed less lazy than just chucking on a CHOOSE LIFE t-shirt and saying I'm George Michael. The point is that we'll be combining the love of 80's and cocktails this time around. Discussions about the get up are ongoing, and the happy hour route is ever evolving. Have you ever tried to plan a route with time of day reached versus happy hour periods versus walking distance to try and maximise going to as many places as possible? Over two days?!? You need algorithms. I don't have algorithms. But with luck, we'll manage something. I've already worked out that we can walk to and from about six or seven bars on the Monday from 12p.m until midnight and be in a perpetual vegetative happy hour state. It's a bit like when a plane is trying to match the speed of the sun's rays on the Earth, except we're the planes and the sun's rays are cheap ostentatious booze. What's more is it'll be my birthday on the Tuesday as well so I can beg the bar staff for free things. I happen to know that at least one of the places we'll be going to will give me treats. Plus we can go out on the Monday and say yeah, it's his birthday tomorrow but he couldn't get Wednesday off work so this is his birthday drinks so get him complimentary booze NOW. The next day we'll go to different bars and I'll be crying in the corner singing happy birthday to myself until they give me free stuff. This can only end well...
Today's Tune
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