I wasn't made to be a Bunny Girl
Last week, I returned from Tuscany with proper Tuscan cold, to find The Contessa staying at my flat (she has spare keys), after a brief sojourn in Britain to attend The Rubber Ball. There was gossip. And sneezing.
Saturday, Foxy had birthday drinks in some vile bar in Soho. Who goes into the West End on Saturday night? Well; as I discovered in the pseudo swanky bar she’d selected, where you had to pay £10 to get passed the evil doorman if you arrived after 10pm even though she’d apparently organised a guest list; scary looking gangsters and their equally scary blonde, Eastern European arm accessories, and a bunch of people dressed in rubber superhero costumes celebrating someone else’s birthday. Vile.
When the DJ tried to chat me up after his set, he commented, “I noticed you dancing earlier.”
To which I responded, “Yer, I’ll dance to almost anything, sometimes.”
Sunday, I planned to have a games afternoon at mine for which I made cakes, but there were too many hang-overs and other lame excuses from those who’d suggested that as a good date. It ended up as a gentle trickle of girlfriends supping tea, eating cake, drinking wine and chatting. I’m not sure I’ll believe people’s apparent enthusiasm for such an event again. Ho hum. My fruitcake was YUM (rum soaked raisins).
Monday, confusion of dates left Legal Mum (who I shared a flat with in Edinburgh) and I in a gay bar with a pianist playing awful show standards and fame tunes to the punters, while The Fishwife’s Son, (also from Edinburgh), who’d proposed said venue was still at work, as he thought we were meeting Wednesday. How is it we all live within twenty minutes walk of each other (very close for London), yet never manage to coordinate meeting? We’re rubbish.
Last night, I went to The 100 Club to see Mono-Taxi, who a friend manages. They were not bad, but the bands they supported held much more appeal. Tunng played beautiful, dark, electronic folk with a strange flotsam of percussion instruments adding to their mystical sound. The main act, Viva Voce was a husband and wife duo; she playing an assortment of impressive looking guitars while he threw himself with such vigour at his drums and vocals that he dripped blood from his mouth as he fucked the audience with his eyes. They played more rocked out blues with a strong taste of The Pixies. If you’re after music to fill your hard-drive, definitely consider picking up the MP3s to be had on their sites.
I rocked out, which I think, in part, precipitated the attention of a French Man who commented that I was out of his league, because taller than he and rather intimidating. No, actually: I’m not. That’s his problem; however, I didn’t wish to add to it, so commented that really I was quite friendly; but realised some men find me scary, thus they wait ‘til drunk at the end of the evening before they have the confidence to approach, and drunk men really aren’t very appealing.
After The 100 closed, somehow we ended up at The Troy, a late night dive in a small, upstairs room with a bar in the corner, with the stickiest carpet in Soho. French Man and his mate followed us along. One of the good things about The Troy is the random conversations one has with complete strangers. Last night, I met a man of thirty-seven who was out with his rockabilly father who he met for the first time three months ago, after his mother died six months ago. There were interesting dynamics of half truths and forgiveness. I also had a chat with a film-maker about the value of pubic hair, and the current slightly paedophilic cult of the smooth; then some men joined in with their take on this and experience of sex with Asian women, with one man telling of the time he was sexually assaulted by another man when dosed with Rohypnol. The French Man got drunk and over forward, proving himself too inept to even take account of basic criteria that might allow him to even enter the game.
How we ended up in the green tiled basement of a room that smelt like a toilet, drinking warm beer and dancing with a very cheery, fat Geordie businessman to Brazilian music after The Troy closed, I’ve no idea. It was meant to be an early night.
Tonight, I’m going to The Proud Gallery, for the private view of their Playboy exhibition. It was suggested I went bunny, but not being naturally bequeathed with ‘bunny assets’ I was a little reticent, especially as there’ll be real bunnies there, so the irony of some homemade outfit would likely look like tired tat beside the glossiness of the real girls. I need a black, cowboy hat NOW, as I’m going with a cowboy. They’re laying on a casino and a free bar: should be an entertaining evening.
I’ve still got a few back entries to slip in: hope it’s not been too confusing to those of you concerned about the strange order of my life, but they are all properly dated, I think. The rest should go in this week sometime, though Tuscany will probably wait ‘til I get my photos back next week.