Tag Archives: nights out

A return to the days when the wild things were actually wild

It’s been some time since I did a journal type blog about my weekend. Mostly because these days I generally spend my weekend pottering around in my PJs, but every now and then my inner twenty-four year old comes out and I end up having a couple of nights out that are worthy of the early years of Where The Wild Things Are – back when it was all stolen traffic cones and snogging… kind of like this weekend.

On Friday night Jen V and I were supposed to go to book club and go home. I am not going to pretend that our book club is something that it’s not. I mean we do all read the same book and talk about it but we do also drink a silly amount of wine and Friday was no exception. We had set up camp in The Porterhouse in Covent Garden, which is always very busy but perfectly pleasant – especially if you decamp to the basement. It was going well until a band of middle aged men set up and started doing David Grey covers (kill me now!). Laura and Emily sensibly decided to go home but Jen V, Jen P and I had the Friday feeling and Steve from work was sending Jen V cryptic messages that indicated that he and some others might be in the Endurance on Berwick Street.

Unfortunately our sojourn in the Endurance was short-lived, since they called last rounds just after we’d swiftly sunk our third (fourth?) bottle of cheap red. Jen P and I were (un)lucky enough though to find ourselves outside having a smoke with one of those South African guys who has decided not to give up a millimetre of his Jo’burg Northern Suburbs schtick and made a point out of calling us both bru and telling us that he still hadn’t acclimatised to London after eight years here and couldn’t understand why anyone would want to live here. I think I might have told him just to go back and stop whining. Oops. There’s nothing I hate more than an ex-pat with a chip on their shoulder. If you want to go home… just go.

After being booted out of the Endurance we surveyed the nearby gay bars – Soho is Soho – but everyone was charging way too much entrance, leading to my cunning plan of heading to Crobar and waiting from Jen P’s boyfriend, Rob, to meet us. Crobar only charges £2.

When Rob found us we were squashed into a very damp corner with Jen P being chatted up by Thor. Well, chatted up is possibly too strong a description. He was just sitting next to her with a longing stare on his pretty Nordic face. He was way too drunk for actual words. He was so smitten that even the arrival of Rob failed to oust him and his friend and to come and gently shepherd him away.

By the time I eventually stumbled into the night, I was a bit sick of metal (although I was still recovering from the fact that they played Bad Medicine by Bon Jovi at one point) and came up with the genius idea of streaming Call Me Maybe on my iPad and dancing to it on the night bus… I am the coolest person that ever lived.

After all that you’d expect a quiet Saturday night in, but Jen, Karen and I had promised ourselves a girls night out and dutifully chucked some slap on and headed back to Soho for an impressively odd night at Thirst.

The first thing that struck us was that there wasn’t a single man in the whole place. In the (somewhat inappropriate) words of Gary from Geordie Shore, “wall to wall clunge.” I have never seen anything quite like it. Of course, I am married, so lack of men has no impact on my night, but it was weird. We went as far as checking the bar’s website to see if we had missed a memo on it being lesbian night but at about midnight, we realised we hadn’t – as a sudden horde of “men” magically appeared from wherever else they’d been warming up.

The most amusing example of the rather pathetic specimens on show, were a group of guys who had obviously been watching too much Made in Chelsea. One was clearly supposed to be a cut price Spencer, the other a bargain basement Hugo and the third… maybe their butler. They immediately marched into the bar and pitched up in front of the mirror fixing their hair, before congratulating themselves on their obviously amazing looks. We imagined the conversation to go a bit like this:

Tesco Spencer: I want to jizz on you.
Asda Hugo: No, I want to jizz on you
Tesco Spencer: No, I want to jizz on you.
Asda Hugo: No, I want to jizz on you
Tesco Spencer: No, I want to jizz on you.
Asda Hugo: No, I want to jizz on you
Tesco Spencer: Or maybe we could jizz on this stupid looking blonde girls
Asda Hugo: You are so smart. I really want to jizz on you…
Butler (to himself): I wish one of you would look at me. I want to jizz on both of you

While these two rejects tried to charm the girls sitting next to us, a group of very drunk teenage boys wearing sunglasses and letting their Primark labels hang out, arrived and alternated between trying to make eye contact with us and dazzle us with their brilliant dance moves.

As more and more posers rolled in, there was a moment of tension when a second round of MIC wannabes turned up and threatened to usurp Tesco Spencer and Asda Hugo through the power of better suits, but everyone stayed in their own territory and no one’s hair came unslicked. However, the threat of unwanted male attention became so present that we had to resort to tag team smoke breaks out of fear of leaving any one “team” member alone and open to threat.

This backfired on me, when I headed out alone, only to be propositioned by a fifty year old Frenchman, with a jones for tattoos. He seemed completely affronted when I told him I was married and acted as if I had made an advance on him. Sigh.

We left not long after that. Despite the fact that we had had rather a lot of cocktails, we were not drunk enough for the rigors of late night Thirst. This was probably a good thing, since  we needs or wits about us to get home. There were no night buses and we weren’t able to get a cab until Karen reserved one using her Addison Lee account. We later found out that there was a massive accident on Aldwych, which had closed the roads for two hours. When we zipped past the bus stop on The Strand next to Trafalgar Square in our taxi there were still about 300 people waiting for a bus. I do home they all managed to eventually get home.

So after feeling like I was twenty-four over the weekend, today I feel like I am seventy-four. To think I did this every weekend for about four years…