Tuesday, July 04, 2006


I awoke yesterday morning with mud-covered feet and grass in my hair. I'll splain. This is my weekend in reverse, I suppose.

Early Sunday afternoon, my Mancurian friend Dexter and I purchased an entire shelf of beer from an off-license in Vauxhall, and made an alco-picnic in the breathtakingly beautiful park behind the Vauxhall Tavern. I say 'breaktakingly beautiful' because it's not so much of a park, but rather, a big grassy hill covered with empty bottles, beer cans, and other trash; passed out homeless alcoholics; clusters of large muscle-head bald homo men; and the gruffest, most criminal-looking lesbians I've ever been within feet of. Thus, I am being exactly one hundred (100) percent ironic, including - and this is personal taste here - the muscle-heads. What's the attraction of steriods, little peenies, and assuming a group identity? All afternoon Dexter and I found it remarkable how easy it was to find each other in this sea of shaved heads and drug-induced bicepts. But hey: To each his own. Finding each other was especially easy since we were the only people present who had hair and non-matching outfits.

After drinking our own bodyweights in the sun with a small group of large homos, some of whom Dexter knew from Manchesterland, we all pushed our drunken way inside to watch a drag queen do The Dame Edna Experience, which was just mediocre...until the guy ripped off his wig, threw his tits into the audience, and just sang. It was rather strange; this man has an amazing lady-rocker voice and ranks vocally with Pink and Joan Jett. Then, the Vauxhall Tavern immediately turned into a repulsively sweaty den of muscle-heads snorting themselves into K-holes, set to the monotonous tune of bad early-90s techno music. Naturally, I refused to stay inside, and instead spent the next seven (7) hours making new friends outside.

I don't know what the hell got into me on Sunday afternoon. By the end of the day I had played with every group on the hill, which was now a wonderfully disparate collection of Souf Londoners who had just stumbled upon the loud grassy hill. Every time Dexter came out to reconvene, he found me with new strangers, all of whom kindly provided me with tons of free beer and other relaxing party favors. It was like I'd never left the house before in my life; I was king of the hill by nightfall, and shortly thereafter. At one point, after my brain had officially gone home but had left my body behind in Vauxhall, a large-breasted lady convinced me to roll down the hill with her...which we did...which inevitably caused us to roll directly into groups of people...some of which we just knocked over until they rolled down with us, everyone laughing loudly and hysterically. And then we did it again. Four times.

This extreme socializing also helped the wicked hangover I had accrued from the night before, particularly since I drank for about 14 hours on Saturday, as well, and also because I forgot to eat anything but beer. I went with my flatmate Peter, and our friends David and Patrick, to watch the parade, where Irish Paddy and I had decided to start drinking on Oxford St. before noon. It was nice standing in front of Selfridges with a half-liter bottle of Leffe Blonde (well, a few of them, actually) while the Selfridges makeup counter employees sprayed us with sunscreen. (I now have a lovely tan, which always makes little blond me look much healthier, as I was born to look like a surfer boy instead of a sickly city dweller.)

After Dexter walked in the parade and sang in the choir, he came to meet our drunken quartet, and we all made our way drinking through Soho Sq., Leicester Sq., Trafalgar Sq., and every other Sq. (and street, for that matter) in between. Perhaps my most mortifying and memorable moment of the afternoon was when I was standing with a big group of friends and was singled out by two approaching teenage boys. The children specifically targeted me apart from the crowd, presented me with a flyer, smiled all excited-like, and then ran away. My flatmate, who has a creepy predilection for teenage boys, immediately questioned why they only approached me, which then prompted the rest of my friends to wonder the same thing.

Then I looked at the flyer, which read Gay Prom! The UK's first gay prom for ages 16 to 19. At which point everyone in the group who knows my real age (almost 28 - exactly one month from today) errupted with laughter. I then quickly convinced Patrick, who looks nearly as young as I do, to go with me to the prom in two weeks, just because I think it'll be absolutely hysterical. Then Patrick and I spent the rest of the afternoon effortlessly asking elder nearby park-goers to buy us Jello shots from the countless people selling them. Who says you can't accept candy from strangers?

Again, I don't know what got into me this weekend. St. Patrick and I were out of control on Saturday. While wandering aimlessly, I passed multiple people I knew, but did not even realize it until I got texts from them minutes later. At one point I sat in a park next to a few of my friends and did not even realize they were there - they had apparently been talking about my drunk ass for about an hour, and at some point, while wrestling with Patrick in Soho Sq., I texted said friends and lied about being somewhere else. Bad little hedonist.

Saturday afternoon was followed by more exhaustive drinking at our flat. And sticking with the reverse chronology of my liquid weekend, I suppose I should say that Friday night was the boozy starting point at a friend's birthday party in Stoke Newington.

I am so fucking poor. And I am never drinking again. I mean, until tonight, for another friend's birthday. It's not my fault. Blame my prom date.

Alcohol may be man's worst enemy, but the bible says love your enemy. - Frank Sinatra