It IS coz I is past it!
As I have been threatening to do for the past few weeks, I ventured into 'clubland' on Saturday to say bon voyage to Sarah as she heads off into the sunset for a six-month jolly.
I met her and Jo and a bunch of their mates in Dean Street.
You can tell how little I go into London Town these days – all the shops and cafes had changed. Literally every one of them, except Quo Vadis. Oh, and All Bar One, where we met.
The drink was flowing, laughter was drowning out the music (or was there any?) and at one point, a police woman arrived. For once I kept my big mouth shut: she wasn't a gay stripper but an authentic officer of the law.
At chucking out time, we went on to Freedom, in Wardour Street, for more drinking and … gasp … dancing.
I’m not sure what Metro writers would have made of the music there but through my vodka-haze it sounded something like nu-repetitive-threestep-plinky-plonk-speed-handbag.
It certainly made everyone inside dance like those mentalists in the Fat Boy Slim video to Praise You.
Even Steve stood in a baffled manner on the edge of the dance floor, clutching a John Lewis carrier bag, looking for all the world like a pensioner who had just been dropped off by a Sunshine bus and knew he lived nearby, but couldn’t quite remember where.
As the night passed 3am, I found myself in journeying into a world of my own, thinking about how past it I am at a mere 32. I am getting married, losing touch with what young people do at weekends, had to sit out the dancing because of me back, and generally turning into a suburban drudge.
At which point, as if I needed that fact underlining, a girl came up to me and said: "I hope you don’t think I’m being rude, but we’ve noticed you sitting there alone. You can come and dance with us if you’d like," and pointed to a young skeletal freak-boy.
Great. What ever happened to the vibrant, essential, exciting TY?
I met her and Jo and a bunch of their mates in Dean Street.
You can tell how little I go into London Town these days – all the shops and cafes had changed. Literally every one of them, except Quo Vadis. Oh, and All Bar One, where we met.
The drink was flowing, laughter was drowning out the music (or was there any?) and at one point, a police woman arrived. For once I kept my big mouth shut: she wasn't a gay stripper but an authentic officer of the law.
At chucking out time, we went on to Freedom, in Wardour Street, for more drinking and … gasp … dancing.
I’m not sure what Metro writers would have made of the music there but through my vodka-haze it sounded something like nu-repetitive-threestep-plinky-plonk-speed-handbag.
It certainly made everyone inside dance like those mentalists in the Fat Boy Slim video to Praise You.
Even Steve stood in a baffled manner on the edge of the dance floor, clutching a John Lewis carrier bag, looking for all the world like a pensioner who had just been dropped off by a Sunshine bus and knew he lived nearby, but couldn’t quite remember where.
As the night passed 3am, I found myself in journeying into a world of my own, thinking about how past it I am at a mere 32. I am getting married, losing touch with what young people do at weekends, had to sit out the dancing because of me back, and generally turning into a suburban drudge.
At which point, as if I needed that fact underlining, a girl came up to me and said: "I hope you don’t think I’m being rude, but we’ve noticed you sitting there alone. You can come and dance with us if you’d like," and pointed to a young skeletal freak-boy.
Great. What ever happened to the vibrant, essential, exciting TY?
posted by The WyeBird @ 4:47 pm
1 Comments:
At 1:47 pm,
The WyeBird said…
Ah, but it was a rather small carrier bag, which could have contained a tube of bum ointment, or whatever old men need, which is probably for sale in JL's toiletry section ...
They are never knowingly undersold, apparently.
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