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Saturday, June 5

Let Me Try Once More

Hmm, so I really wasn't in the mood for writing last night. I was writing terribly, so I figured it wasn't worth my effort to produce a poor quality tale of Wednesday night. Today, I feel a lot better, and am more than ready to write properly.

I think I left it (again, too lazy to check) with me going for an interview at the tennis club round the corner from my house. It went very well, and the lady who interviewed me seemed very eager to give me a job. "I'll ring you on Friday", she said.

Has she rang yet (8pm on Friday)? Has she fuck. And neither has the other pub which was supposed to call me back, the bastards. And just when I'd got my hopes up with the thought of finding a job, with the double benefit of earning money and getting my parents off my back. Not that they've been moaning as much as they did last summer. That's probably because I'm here in London, and they're back in Melksham. That distance is too far to be able to nag.

After the brief interview, I stopped at home to change out of my shirt and into a random t-shirt, before heading into Central London to meet a few of my housemates at our student union bar (the Waterfront). I was only planning to go for 3 or 4 drinks at the most, honest!

I was decidedly overdressed too. I still had on my suit trousers and smart black shoes, along with this half-decent t-shirt and a jacket. Everyone else in the bar, or at least 80%, were in the standard student fare of jeans and t-shirts. Ahhh well, I don't mind sticking out like a sore thumb.

A swift 3 or 4 pints, along with a pizza, went down the hatch, and I was feeling pretty damn good already. Somehow I got talked into going to Candybox at Hombre's, which, as I have mentioned here before, is the worst club / club night in the world ever. I hate the music, hate the clientele, hate the decor, hate just about everything about it.

Its redeeming quality, and it is an important one, is that on Wednesdays it is a mere 1 for a vodka / whisky and coke / lemonade. A very important redeeming quality, if I may say so.

Of course, we couldn't go there straight away. We had to get a bus up to Oxford Circus, walk all the fucking way down to Tottenham Court Road to get a flyer for cheap entry to Candybox, and then stop off at a bar on the way back down towards Oxford Circus.

Again, the bar made the trip worthwhile, to some extent. It was the tiniest little place on a side street alley off Oxford St, with everyone standing outside on tiny pavements drinking. There was barely room to stand inside, never mind swing a cat.

Beer wasn't too pricey either, at a mere 2.90 per pint. That's very cheap for Oxford St / Central London. It let itself down, however, with its toilets. They are down some stairs inside, which in fact open up to reveal a larger and more spacious bar area.

The door to the toilets lulls you into a false sense of security, because it looks relatively arty and nice. Inside is the world's worst toilet. Honestly, it is the close relation of that one in Trainspotting. Cramped, stinking and claustrophobic are all adjectives which spring to mind. It was one of those toilets where you hold your breath for the entire time that you are in there, for fear of inahling something particularly noxious and potentially life-threatening. You've all been in one of those, I'm sure.

After that, erm, experience, we headed off to Candybox, stopping off on the way to take a quick photo by an enormous model camel in a random take-away. I've got all the photos on my computer now, so I'll update the PhotoBlog straight after this.

We got to the club, paid the 3 entry fee and headed downstairs, after a brisk frisking by a burly bouncer. I would be surprised if the job requirements for a bouncer's job didn't include the inability to smile. They are such fucking moody cunts.

Anyway, we descended the stairs to the gloriously inept and torturous decor, and were at the bar within seconds. Double vodka-coke? Don't mind if I do.

Repeat ad infinitum, and I'm sure you understand that I was quite, quite drunk. Funny how 5 or 6 beers and then a shitload of vodka does that to you. I still haven't worked out exactly how it does it. I guess more research is required.

It's at this point that memory gets a little hazy. I remember dancing to a couple of songs with a few mates on a near-empty dancefloor, including a Rage Against The Machine song which I don't the name of, and a Chemical Brothers song called 'Life is Sweet'. I only know this because I set a reminder on my phone for the next day to download the song. I think I remember asking Daz what the song was, and then typing it into my phone, but I'm not 100% sure.

It was then a period of more drinking, some more drinking, and standing around at the side of the room with a few mates, chatting about random shit and god knows what.

I remember chatting to this guy I know from law at King's who I hadn't seen / spoken to in a while, which was cool, but for the most part I was there with one of my housemates, Chindle.

It is here that the interesting and quite possibly disturbing part of the tale happened. No, I didn't suddenly have an attack of homosexuality and leap onto Chindle.

Almost the opposite, in fact.

My memory, as I mentioned is very non-helpful regarding this point, and I've had to enlist the aid of Chindle in recollecting exactly what happened. I will refrain from constantly using the word 'apparently', but please apply it to the following paragraph or two.

These two girls came up to myself and Chindle, but I cannot remember exactly why and for what reason they came over exactly. My overriding memory is that the taller of the two girls (I cannot remember what they looked like at all, only their heights) went to Chindle, and the shorter one came to me.

She said something along the lines of "Do you mind if I kiss you?", and being the gentleman that I am, I couldn't turn the lady down. I've no idea how long we were there for, or if Chindle pulled the other one, or anything.

I do remember (although this is possibly my mind playing tricks on me) asking her if I was only a slight distraction for her whilst her friend went after Chindle, and her reply along the lines of "nah, you're well buff."

You know when a girl uses the word 'buff' that they're fairly young... 'Buff' is such a crap word. I fucking hate the word 'buff', even with its positive connotations.

Again, I have no idea what my reply to that was, or even if I made one, as my memory fades out once more. All I can remember about her was that she was very short (5'2 or somewhere round there) and had black here. I've no idea if she herself was 'buff' or anything.

I was told the next day that she was quite young-looking, and was probably about 17 or 18 at the oldest. I've now lost mocking rights towards Al and his 16 (17?)-year-old girlfriend. Chindle did say that she was half-decent-looking, just young-looking too.

I'm going to convince myself that she just looked young for her (true) age, and that she was really 19 or so. The problem herein is the use of the word 'buff'. That destroys completely any idea that she was over the age of 18.


All I know is that I didn't see her again for the rest of the night, not that I'd have been able to recognise her anyway. I was barely recognising my own hands at the end of my arms, let alone anybody else.

I was told the next day that I'd chatted to Pete (a housemate) for a few minutes later in the night, and that he could tell I was very drunk because I practically deafened him by shouting in his ear at very close range. I can't help it, I'm a loud drunk.

As far as I know (my new 'apparently' phrase), I didn't pull again during the evening, although I stand to be corrected if one of my housemates tells me otherwise in the coming days. I wouldn't be able to deny it!

I left at about 2, without the rest of my housemates. Again, no idea why, I must have been tired, or, more likely, out of money.

The weird thing here is that I distinctly remember walking down Oxford Street to the bus stop, and the entire bus journey home, but I don't remember getting in my own front door. It's a little disarming to have an hour of perfect memory in the middle of two hazy areas and gaps.

I remember this bus journey because I bumped into a friend of a housemate on the way to the bus stop. She's cool, and very friendly, but a little up her own ass. Nevertheless, I had someone to talk to on the way home.

We sat upstairs (I think), with a few other friends of hers, and chatted about houses for most of the journey home. It's got to the stage in the academic year where everyone is thinking about where they're going to live next year. Well, everyone except me, because I'll be in halls in Germany.

I can't remember the precise details of the conversation, and I'm pretty certain that I came across as so very drunk, but so be it. I was so very drunk, after all! I'll ask her when she comes to this house party we're having tomorrow, although I reckon I could get very embarrassed when she tells me if and how I disgraced myself verbally.

As I said, I don't remember getting in, but I woke up in my own bed the next day, which is a pretty good result. Admittedly, the waking didn't happen until 1.30 in the afternoon, but I finally got my lie-in that I'd promised myself the day before!

The hangover wasn't too bad, and the shower washed most cobwebs away. My only negative effect was that I ached from head to toe, my legs especially. I still haven't figured out exactly why, because I know that I didn't walk epic distances on Wednesday night, and certainly nowhere near as far as on Friday night. Chancery Lane to Oxford Circus, I fucking tell you!

Thankfully, I wasn't the only person moping all day Thursday. We all felt like shit, and did a grand total of fuck-all in the entire day. Our landlord brought a few people in to look round the house (my housemates have decided to move elsewhere next year, as they can't find enough people to live with by next week), only to find a few of us in the living room, watching Family Guy and generally feeling bleh.

The funniest thing was that Matt was lying on the living room floor, on his dressing gown and wearing only a pair of boxers. We don't call him Beast for nothing, as he is a hairy man, and not exactly appealing to the eye when half-naked! Our landlord's face was a picture. Shock is the name of the emotion, I believe.

The rest of the evening was a washout, interrupted only by my quite fantastical cooking skills. I threw together this amazing Jambalaya, and made enough to feed me tonight too. I do enjoy cooking most of the time, although I also get the can't-be-arsed feeling some days. I call them pasta-and-sauce days, but even then I do something extra with the sauce, so it isn't too boring.

This Jambalaya was fucking brilliant, if I may say so myself. It's a Creole dish, made up of rice, peppers, onion, chicken sausage and sauce. It's really easy to make, but involves a hell of a lot of chopping and prep before the easy cooking bit. I've made it a couple of times recently, and I've been very pleased with the results each time.

It's got a kick to it (that'd be the peppers), which is my favourite element. I love spicy food, from Mexican to Indian to Chinese. Whilst I don't quite make it to the level of a Phall on the menu in an Indian restaurant, I have to throw in a fair bit of hot curry powder whenever I make a sauce out of a jar from the supermarket. Even their hottest sauces aren't quite enough for my tastes.

I guess I must have adjusted through the constant use of curry powder that my Dad has always brought back from his trips abroad at work. He loves ultra-spicy stuff, and the type of curry which I've always called Mild at home are in fact the same level of spiciness as a Medium-Hot in a restaurant / on a supermarket shelf. I found this out on my first visit to a curry house, when I ordered a Korma and found it completely and utterly tasteless. Far too much cream!

But I digress.

Thursday evening was indeed crap and uneventful, as has been today. We watched Henman lose in the tennis, and that's about it, to be honest. Truly, so very, very boring. But Wednesday night was pretty hectic, and tomorrow is going to be mad (England game, house party and a few other things), so that makes up for taking two days off. Well, to my mind it does.

And honestly officer, I thought she was over 18...

*hangs head in shame*


Ah, you've gone down the blogger road while I stick loyaly to Haloscan ;)
It happens to me all the time anyway, As soon as the fresh air hits me outside I suddenly become infinitely more drunk and those bits are what I'm most likely to forget.
And is pulling an 18 year old relly that bad?

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