It often occurs to me that if we subjected animals to the claustrophobia, cigarette/weed fumes and extreme noise that is a drum’n’bass club night, the RSPCA would be kicking our asses for cruelty quicker than a dreadhead can say booyakasha. Fabric epitomized most of this abuse, bless it. We emerged aching, exhausted, and probably with long-term hearing damage, and Gareth and me exchanged our regular (and regularly broken) “I’m never going clubbing again” vows the next day at three in the afternoon having just managed to get out of bed, and until now sitting cross-legged is an exercise in pain, but hey, that’s all part of being young and reckless innit?
The rest of the weekend was spent with Alec, newly returned (and unsurprisingly wrecked) from his week in Ireland. Crappy Tesco’s dinner. People-watching Cafe 1001 breakfast. Trawls through Rokit and The Laden Showroom. Strong temptation to buy a “Single Robot Looking For Love” T-shirt/panty set, but eventual resistance because it wasn’t worth £18. Excursion to Argos for bookcase, much love for poor Alec who had to carry it back to my flat. Mass. Pig-out at KFC. Omid Djalili: Behind Enemy Lines at the Bloomsbury Theatre. Sounds like a lot, but didn’t feel like enough, on saying good night.