An empty carton of Lucky Strikes
I hate New Years Eve. I had resolved to avoid it entirely, stay in, cook myself a nice roast dinner, follow that with ice cream under the duvet with some DVDs. But I was talked into going to some one's house instead, promised that it was to be a low key affair and that those in attendance had not bought tickets to go on anywhere crowded and horrible but were planning simply to have a nice time with some food and drinks in the house.
Shortly after I arrived I found out that the plan was to leave said house at 11 and head for a bar. So, I ended up having exactly the sort of new year I was trying to avoid, finding myself in a crowded bar playing shit music being jostled by cunts. I sulked for a while until I was dragged to the dance floor why some friends. I rewarded their efforts by pretending to be vaguely happy dancing to hip-hop and Peter Andre records until midnight.
As tinny, pre-recorded big ben chimes were played in I felt completely isolated and separate from all the merry revellers around me. The floor of this particular shitty bar was covered in sand, to lend the place a beach 'vibe'. As the evening wore on, the sand began to clump with spilled drink and accumulate bits of broken glass and plastic, making it an accurate representation of a British Beach. Imagine for yourselves the joys of walking into the gents to find the traditional pissy floor with a thin spread of wet sand across it. Nice!
Still, I was able in the early hours of 2009 to arrive home and traipse sand into my carpet. Nice to get that one checked off the "Things to do in '09" list early...
Shortly after I arrived I found out that the plan was to leave said house at 11 and head for a bar. So, I ended up having exactly the sort of new year I was trying to avoid, finding myself in a crowded bar playing shit music being jostled by cunts. I sulked for a while until I was dragged to the dance floor why some friends. I rewarded their efforts by pretending to be vaguely happy dancing to hip-hop and Peter Andre records until midnight.
As tinny, pre-recorded big ben chimes were played in I felt completely isolated and separate from all the merry revellers around me. The floor of this particular shitty bar was covered in sand, to lend the place a beach 'vibe'. As the evening wore on, the sand began to clump with spilled drink and accumulate bits of broken glass and plastic, making it an accurate representation of a British Beach. Imagine for yourselves the joys of walking into the gents to find the traditional pissy floor with a thin spread of wet sand across it. Nice!
Still, I was able in the early hours of 2009 to arrive home and traipse sand into my carpet. Nice to get that one checked off the "Things to do in '09" list early...