25 April - Two Halves & Better than one
I have a confession to make. I've momentarily lost my mojo. So I drafted lots of blogposts and never got roudn to finishing them. It is now th 16 of May so if I leave it any longer you'll think this blog is dormant. So am going to publish all the drafts w/o much tidying up. Apologies for bad grammar/spelling and convoluted thought processes. They will be just time pegs. Here goes.
Top nights out for me have always been nights of two halves or three parters, just like old plays. Perhaps I have already bored you somewhere with the night I went to see Metallica at Earls Court, then I zoomed off to see the Prodigy at Brixton as they were on very later, and got back to Beach Blanket Babylon in time to enjoy the Metallica after show. I may be confusing nights but I think at the Prodigy I was with my friend PW who I was or had been having an on/off thing with and we kept licking each other's face in between kicking it. Or maybe it wasn't that night? I was recently post split with the married man. Or even not recently, think it took a full two years to recover or maybe it was one of those three months' hiatus where you think you've shaken off the addiction and can get it on with someone else but just to be safe you do it with an old friend? PW didn't know about the married man. Darn, where were blogs when you needed them. I can't remember shit. Was it 1995?
But back to the present… Lovely D. takes me to the press launch of Organic/good food show at Earls Court (see, there was a reason why I thought about the Metallica show, same venue) and we happily wander about sampling stuff and waiting for the dancing sheep show. You will remember they performed at a Sony Walkman launch and I was not impressed. Once again the dancing sheep fail to dance according to my standards but I nearly buy the wool just shorn on stage by the Ozzie owner of the dancing sheep (or is he Welsh? I get confused by accents). It's an acution and I get beaten at £40... Imagine my surprise later when we speak to owner and he says he sells the wool for something like £1.50 a kilo plus a shearing fee of the same and that the entire sheep he just made bald would yield just a kilo or thereabouts. All that wool for £3. Now you know how much they make on those silly sheep's wool rugs you find everywhere... Anyway, he's married and clearly not interested in D. so we wander off to the area where Giorgio Locatelli is doing a food demonstration. Asparagus risotto and asparagus hand made ravioli. He can handle both at same time.
Blimey! He's a rock god! He's cut his hair and he's still massively ugly in a sort of Cyclops way but he's ultra sexy. He's taller than I thought and underneath the whites he's wearing some top dark jeans. He talks like an Italian just off the boat but he's 'got' the stage. His sidekick (Enrico? Luca? Stefano? what was his name?) is ten years younger and taller and all around perfectly god made man material. He'd be the Ulysses of the situation. I'm mesmerised. Suddenly I care for ravioli.
When he finishes, the small crowd descends like vultures to taste the finished goods. I hang back and because everyone is so well brought up that they'd only use the spoons or forks provided for one morsel.. I grab with my hands the last raviolo which nobody had an implement for. It is divine of course but, and don't think I don't know I'm coming across as arrongant, if I doused my ravioli in as much butter as Mr Locatelli, they'd taste divine too. Never do I cook with such amount of ... fat. So it feels like I'm taking drugs basically.
But time to go, cross town to the South Bank where 2Many Djs/Soulwax (one and the same in case you don't know) and Tiga await.
I arrive and fail to locate my friend I. who's invited me. Her phone is not delivering my text messages I'll discover later. But am having a good time watching the daisylowes (my new name for the peaches/pixie generation). I spot an incongrous figure, a very talll, white haired man and keep thinking 'I know you!' But can't recall who he is. Eventually a familiar figure steps up next to him. It's my friend P. ! What is she doing here????? So I descend on her. She was next door at a Pere Ubu gig and was told by a friend to wander over. She's full of enthusiasm for the Soulwax film that's just been premiered (fab title, 'Part of the Weekend Never Dies' - I missed it) and the tall man is revealed as ex head of MTV Europoe. But of course... He's on his tod and not very talkative so we abandon him when my friend I. passes by and I grab her.
She looks good! Last time we met she was pregnant and now child is a year and a half!). She's bucking the trend, so refreshing, you see someone after a year and half and they’ve not gone to seed, in fact they look great. She's running she tells me. That's fab. We go backstage where I discover Mr Soulwax senior (father of the two bros) is, in his own country of Belgium, the equivalent of a John Peel and more well known than the offsprings. Ahhhhh. Then I talk to some manager of Massive who may or may not help with tix for the already sold out Meltdown gigs and to various other people but manage to miss the smalll and perfectly formed Tiga who I. says I should marry. Well, yes, but what would Toph say? Enough drink is drunk and we leave. She's got an early Eurostar to catch. The Soulwax boys will be in Ibiza in the summer, for shows, and they have rented a house. Could this be the year I finally make it to my holy land?
The following night it's another night of two halves. The first spent at the utterly lovely celebration of a friend's parents' fortieth wedding anniversary, held in said friend's house, which is large enough to host over a hundred people and caterers. Of course we're invited to offer a little respite from the wrinklies (the only people yonger than us are the grandchildren!) but what fine wrinklies they're! Various writers and broadcasters: Ms Bainbridge, Mr Palin, Mr Mount and that guy who was Mrs Tatcher's press officer and just wrote an hilarious book on that experience (well, the excerpts were surreal and funny, Mrs T. treating her stuff as a mum occasionally) and Lord Bragg - am I just full of myself or did he give me an approving once over??? I rather like his full head of hair.
Then I left and went to join a girlfriend's hen night drinks. Except that it was all very classy in Soho with Mohitos and ... men! Yes, the were allowed. I left before the drug taking that would have helped stay awake. I do love flitting about. One party is never enough. Bring them on.
But it's not surprising that the following day I just play the same soothing music I played for years of after parties: William Orbit, Strange Cargo. Cod clubby classical but won't let you down.
Top nights out for me have always been nights of two halves or three parters, just like old plays. Perhaps I have already bored you somewhere with the night I went to see Metallica at Earls Court, then I zoomed off to see the Prodigy at Brixton as they were on very later, and got back to Beach Blanket Babylon in time to enjoy the Metallica after show. I may be confusing nights but I think at the Prodigy I was with my friend PW who I was or had been having an on/off thing with and we kept licking each other's face in between kicking it. Or maybe it wasn't that night? I was recently post split with the married man. Or even not recently, think it took a full two years to recover or maybe it was one of those three months' hiatus where you think you've shaken off the addiction and can get it on with someone else but just to be safe you do it with an old friend? PW didn't know about the married man. Darn, where were blogs when you needed them. I can't remember shit. Was it 1995?
But back to the present… Lovely D. takes me to the press launch of Organic/good food show at Earls Court (see, there was a reason why I thought about the Metallica show, same venue) and we happily wander about sampling stuff and waiting for the dancing sheep show. You will remember they performed at a Sony Walkman launch and I was not impressed. Once again the dancing sheep fail to dance according to my standards but I nearly buy the wool just shorn on stage by the Ozzie owner of the dancing sheep (or is he Welsh? I get confused by accents). It's an acution and I get beaten at £40... Imagine my surprise later when we speak to owner and he says he sells the wool for something like £1.50 a kilo plus a shearing fee of the same and that the entire sheep he just made bald would yield just a kilo or thereabouts. All that wool for £3. Now you know how much they make on those silly sheep's wool rugs you find everywhere... Anyway, he's married and clearly not interested in D. so we wander off to the area where Giorgio Locatelli is doing a food demonstration. Asparagus risotto and asparagus hand made ravioli. He can handle both at same time.
Blimey! He's a rock god! He's cut his hair and he's still massively ugly in a sort of Cyclops way but he's ultra sexy. He's taller than I thought and underneath the whites he's wearing some top dark jeans. He talks like an Italian just off the boat but he's 'got' the stage. His sidekick (Enrico? Luca? Stefano? what was his name?) is ten years younger and taller and all around perfectly god made man material. He'd be the Ulysses of the situation. I'm mesmerised. Suddenly I care for ravioli.
When he finishes, the small crowd descends like vultures to taste the finished goods. I hang back and because everyone is so well brought up that they'd only use the spoons or forks provided for one morsel.. I grab with my hands the last raviolo which nobody had an implement for. It is divine of course but, and don't think I don't know I'm coming across as arrongant, if I doused my ravioli in as much butter as Mr Locatelli, they'd taste divine too. Never do I cook with such amount of ... fat. So it feels like I'm taking drugs basically.
But time to go, cross town to the South Bank where 2Many Djs/Soulwax (one and the same in case you don't know) and Tiga await.
I arrive and fail to locate my friend I. who's invited me. Her phone is not delivering my text messages I'll discover later. But am having a good time watching the daisylowes (my new name for the peaches/pixie generation). I spot an incongrous figure, a very talll, white haired man and keep thinking 'I know you!' But can't recall who he is. Eventually a familiar figure steps up next to him. It's my friend P. ! What is she doing here????? So I descend on her. She was next door at a Pere Ubu gig and was told by a friend to wander over. She's full of enthusiasm for the Soulwax film that's just been premiered (fab title, 'Part of the Weekend Never Dies' - I missed it) and the tall man is revealed as ex head of MTV Europoe. But of course... He's on his tod and not very talkative so we abandon him when my friend I. passes by and I grab her.
She looks good! Last time we met she was pregnant and now child is a year and a half!). She's bucking the trend, so refreshing, you see someone after a year and half and they’ve not gone to seed, in fact they look great. She's running she tells me. That's fab. We go backstage where I discover Mr Soulwax senior (father of the two bros) is, in his own country of Belgium, the equivalent of a John Peel and more well known than the offsprings. Ahhhhh. Then I talk to some manager of Massive who may or may not help with tix for the already sold out Meltdown gigs and to various other people but manage to miss the smalll and perfectly formed Tiga who I. says I should marry. Well, yes, but what would Toph say? Enough drink is drunk and we leave. She's got an early Eurostar to catch. The Soulwax boys will be in Ibiza in the summer, for shows, and they have rented a house. Could this be the year I finally make it to my holy land?
The following night it's another night of two halves. The first spent at the utterly lovely celebration of a friend's parents' fortieth wedding anniversary, held in said friend's house, which is large enough to host over a hundred people and caterers. Of course we're invited to offer a little respite from the wrinklies (the only people yonger than us are the grandchildren!) but what fine wrinklies they're! Various writers and broadcasters: Ms Bainbridge, Mr Palin, Mr Mount and that guy who was Mrs Tatcher's press officer and just wrote an hilarious book on that experience (well, the excerpts were surreal and funny, Mrs T. treating her stuff as a mum occasionally) and Lord Bragg - am I just full of myself or did he give me an approving once over??? I rather like his full head of hair.
Then I left and went to join a girlfriend's hen night drinks. Except that it was all very classy in Soho with Mohitos and ... men! Yes, the were allowed. I left before the drug taking that would have helped stay awake. I do love flitting about. One party is never enough. Bring them on.
But it's not surprising that the following day I just play the same soothing music I played for years of after parties: William Orbit, Strange Cargo. Cod clubby classical but won't let you down.
Labels: clubbing, eating, Music, old people
posted by Lisa Taylor @ 6:32 AM
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