I made a conscious decision to do absolutely nothing this week. In the end my resolve cracked on Thursday (see below), but Monday to Wednesday were filled with nothing other than mundane domesticity: work, cook, watch crappy TV, play bass, and booze. Gill’s a boozehound par excellence:
RF: “Guys, dinner’s ready.”
Gill: “Thanks!” <sound of wine cork popping> “Splashy splashy?”
Swing on Thursday was chuffing great. It was the last session in the beginners’ block and we were taught a few new Charleston moves. Although I came dangerously close to freaking out in the middle of the lesson (I have a finite and rather low capacity for getting to grips with new moves, after which my brain starts generating rather more heat than light), I gathered my shit enough so that by the end of the evening I managed to dance with, and lead Gill for all of three minutes without abruptly stopping and apologising profusely.
Ya dancer!
Afterwards we went to the pub and congratulated ourselves with lots of beer. Excellent evening all round.
Doug and I went along to Waxy’s birthday bash in the west end of Glasgow on Friday night. It was a rather good night – I met the semi-mythical Jesus Andy (turns out he’s neither mythical nor much resembles Jesus anymore, but still has excellent chat) and his girlfriend Lou, and after the pub closed we sat in their flat eating kebabs, drinking their beer and listening to Lou shame us all with her guitar-playing virtuosity. It was…kebabylon. That’s the second decent kebab I’ve had in as many months. Fortunately, it’s also only the second kebab I’ve had in as many months.
Back in Edinburgh on Saturday, I was fashionably late for Katie’s dinner party being held in honour of Ben and Joanna’s return to the fold. My pirate gear from last Hallowe’en had apparently been looted (alright, I’d thrown out a load of old clothes that had previously been deemed piratical) and so I donned instead my RAF gear and pretended that I’d misheard.*
Once Jez arrived with the French girls in tow, we took a pair of taxis into darkest Leith, looking for a party Katie had been invited to. “I didn’t tell Laurence that I was bringing anyone,” she said, “but I’m sure it’ll be okay.” It was. The party was taking place in four flats around a central courtyard, best summed up by Devon as a yuppie commune.
“You’re a waste of taxpayer’s money!” a short, slightly posh man said to me as I cracked open a bottle.
“I’m not actually in the RAF,” I said. “You twit,” I almost followed it up with. Instead I said: “This is a fancy dress party, right? Look – there’s Teenwolf. I’m dressed up.”
On reflection, an RAF uniform probably only really works in context. Like at Vegas, for example. Or if one is, in fact, in the RAF. I’ll stick with Vegas for the time being.
* <snort>
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I must actually give credit where credit is due– Yuppie Commune is Jez’s phrase: a sort of Utopia that he has imagined where he buys a massive Georgian townhouse and we all live there in only slightly decayed (but obviously en suite) aristocratic splendour drinking gin and tonics in the library and dressing up dogs in costume and having large dinner parties with lots of drink in the conservatory. Sort of like living within a game of Cluedo, I think. I actually referred to the party as ‘Yuppie Commune without the Yuppie’ as in, just a commune, really, because those peeps were cool, but certainly more hippie than yuppie… I don’t know if this is a good or bad thing.
Ah, right. Sounds brilliant! We haven’t had enough gin-soaked cocktail parties of late if you ask me.
I can still remember (hazily) the week after the first Hat Party, when all of the booze bar a shitload of gin and tonic water had been drunk. It became traditional to have a few postprandial G+Ts, at least until the weekend by which time we’d drunk it all. Good times!
yeah by the weekend it was only rum based cocktails left and that wierd arak stuff
MC Tunes
God, that arak stuff was vile. All of those generic aniseed liqueurs are pretty ghastly. Especially sambuca. Which probably explains why two random backpackers, Antonio and I drank half of your bottle of it that fateful night.
Correct me if I’m wrong but doesn’t this post share its name with a Robbie Williams album? Where did it all go wrong man?
Uh, yeah. I think Davis had it in his car the other day. He said it was Jenna’s, but I think secretly he’s trying to turn TM into a vehicle for Robbie Williams covers.