Out Of Line, And Rarely Sober.

What a superb weekend, the sort that you could repeat week in, week out and never get bored of. Finished an essay on Friday then went to a 21st house party and had a quality time getting drunk and stoned within a relatively new circle of friends, which is always a good thing. On Saturday I wondered in to town with Crocker to get some sushi, play pool and watch some football. Then I nipped over to the Phlat and watched a film about some dude who grew a massive rotating drill for a penis with the guys.

Started the big night out in Private Eyes: my second ever strip-club experience after the Bulgarian jaunt over three years ago. For the first hour or so I wrestled with thoughts about why women would get their cannons and giblets out for such low sums of cash, but then started feeling too tipsy to care about the hidden motives behind the skilful art of grinding on a guys lap. As everybody else went in and out of booths I gazed in terror at the worlds fattest aspiring stripper, and after Andy failed to coax a dance out of her we all agreed to head to the next club; except from Sludge, who would have probably stayed there all night hadn’t everyone else left.

On our way to Five Sludge and Wilson were stopped by the police for “instigating a fight” (geez, somehow I don’t remember hearing about that charge before) and apprehended for a good 15 minutes to everyone else’s amusement. Nice job coppers, whilst you’re wasting time running background checks on two friends for toy fighting and searching them for any contraband some poor bugger’s being mugged or beaten up a few streets away. Assholes.

On our way to the concluding venue the police made another visit after Andy threw a bin in at Sludge, but they didn’t seem to care much this time. Finally, we all boarded the Tropicana train. Didn’t think I’d like it as much, but the club was amazing. We were easily the youngest people there, everybody was out for a good time, the Dj didn’t moan about cheesy requests – I touch myself et.al. – and as I lost track of time dancing I eventually realised that everybody else had disappeared. Didn’t bother me though because a bolognaise and pineapple pizza is more than adequate company for the walk home.

Moral of the story: there are other places in town yonder Belmont Street, and although you burn a little more money, the variation and standard of entertainment is well worth the extra tenner here and there.

Whilst the above sounds like one of those boring “I did this, then that” accounts of ones weekend I know it’ll bring back these entertaining memories time and time again upon re-reading it. Also, don’t think the standard’s dropping for long because to coincide with my 21st birthday the next pensive instalment will have a lot more meat to it. Please don’t ask me why I wrote this in an anecdotal and informative manner either.