-------- Original Message --------
Subject: (void) Adventures in Fulham
Date: Fri, 01 Jun 2001 13:02:03 +0100
From: Simon Wistow 
To: Void 

You know the situation - you're in a bar with a large group of people,
everybody's drinking, everybody's nicely seperated and talking and
mingling and suddenly the lights come on and your being sheparded out
the bar and everyone mooches around outside looking lost and someone
says they know this *great* club round the corner and you don't really
want to go but your housemates say they only want one drink and then you
can all catch a cab home and it's free to get in ...

Of course it never is free to get in. I mean, not for me, it was for the
girls especially since they seemed to have made an effort and worn their
strappy sandals and even strappier tops and best belly button rings and
chains and whatever. Still, five quid isn't sooo bad especially since
yesterday was pay day. To be honest I should have been worried about the
company I was in - the ringleader (the Norwegian girl who doesn't like
snow from (void) posts passim) and her cohorts are all ex-cheesy
clubbers (think Los Locos and La Scandale and Equinox and Hippodrome)
gone Cosmo sophisticated. But without any irony (the great face server
of our generation - "It's Ok ... it's *ironic*"). The warning signs were
all there but what the heck, on with the story ...

The place was teeming with cunts. No other word for them. Sweaty braying
Kensington wannabes. Hoxton without the messy peaked hair and AYB
t-shirts. Less Firetrap, more Hackett. And that was just the women.
Nathaniel and Natalie instead of Nathan.

Straight to the bar, elbow a couple of Nathaniels out the way and glare
at them when they turn round. Bottle of stella (euggch) and a double G&T
and I hand over a tenner. The underpaid arsehole behind them bar
(dressed better than I was though) looks snootily down his nose at me
with his hand stretched out, palm up, waiting. I resist the urge to give
him some skin and hand over a solitary quid coin on the basis that any
more than that and I'll take the cash back from him and get the fuck out
of dodge. Thankfully (???) he hands me a 50p and I go in search of
somewhere to sulk.

Push through the heaving mass of cunts (what is the collective noun - a
compendium? a bray? a flock?) chucking shapes on the tiny dance floor
(they look bad when they're dancing so space for it is tactfully kept to
a minimum. That and it quells the instinctive urges in the Natalies to
break in carefully choreographed routines round their handbags)  kicking
a few shins on the way and annexe an alcove that is mysteriously left
empty. I drink my stella (how does bottled stuff end up tasting
watered?) as fast as possible, wait for someone from our group to return
so I can leave the bags and leg it, collaring housemates on way and
informing them that I'm leaving *NOW* and reminding them that it's past
last tube and I'm the only one with any cash to get a taxi. Thankfully
they agree and we amscrae out of there, pausing only to shoot the
doorman a filthy look when he gliby hopes that he'll see us again.

Mercifully find a taxi willing to go saaaarf of the river and settle
back into the seat for a pleasant ride down the embankment. I'm so
grateful to get home I give the guy a 20% tip.

I'm listening to the Me First and the Gimmie Gimmie's version of 99 Red
Balloons at the moment - I particularly like the way he switches to
flawless German half way through the song. In fact I'm going to listen
to it again. Right now.