bitful

DTPM then.

It was meant to be a carefully orchestrated night out, with the added bonus of having taken Monday morning off. All the premises were there for a fantastic time. A treat fit for a queen, infused with the naughtiness of clubbing on a school night.

And then I go and spoil it by going out on Friday night (Royal Vauxhall Tavern), and on Saturday all day (Pride march/rally and full-on street drinking in Old Comptons Street) and night (Action) and Sunday afternoon (Royal Vauxhall Tavern).

By the time I was meant to shower and change into club-friendly clothes on Sunday night, I was sticking out my lower lip and moaning 'I don't want to go'. Next to me, a too smug for words Dr B. was theatrically stretching and yawning on top of freshly laundered sheets on a very inviting double bed.

Moreover, I had had both dinner* and tea**, thereby breaking the golden rule: never eat before clubbing, or you'll have more repeats than Friends on E4.

But off I went, proudly brandishing a free entry invitation (how could I stay in?) and my scribbled directions on how to go from the club to the Night Bus stop that would take me home.

Now, I had gone to DTPM many times before and yet, that did not stop me from taking the wrong way out the tube station. I knew I should have followed the Diet Red Bull-sipping crowd that went past me at the gates in a cloud of Gucci Rush and confidently turned left – but no, I told myself that they were off to Trade, and went the opposite way. The fact that Trade is no more obviously did not make the penny drop. Nor the fact the Trade was something like 6am—noon and this was 11pm instead. Hell, for all I know, that might not have been the way to Trade at all.

One quick phone call home later ('Uhm, hi. Question: is DTPM left or, erm, right from Farringdon tube?' – 'Left, you muppet!), there I was, too early in a near-empty club. On a full stomach. I slowly sipped a beer (which was to provide the only intoxication for the whole evening) waiting for 'the Italian who lives in Paris', 'the German who lives in London', and 'the Briton who lives in Thailand' to join me.

Heartburn must have made me look sultry, for I was treated to the chat-up gems below:

• I'd f**k you any day – ah, a true old-fashioned gentleman. Dying breed, that one.
• Where's your boyfriend? – to which I replied 'At home sleeping. He was… hang on, you don't know me from Adam, do you?' – 'No, but I thought such a gorgeous guy… [you can guess the rest]
• You're very sexy – Times three (in variations thereof). Come on lads, a little more imagination!
• [...] – Grabbing me arse and pulling me towards some scarily gyrating hips. Now, we might have enjoyed some dirty moves on some dancefloor in the past, but that's where it stops. Ever heard of foreplay?

I made my excuses around two, and as I was entering the loos for a final slash I bumped into God — who on this earth happens to take on Jeremy Sheffield body. Yep, that one. I looked at him as I walked past, he looked right back. I turned. He did not.

I quickly debated what to do, but as his IMDB entry stated that he was based in Miami, I had sadly deleted him from my laminated 'Five Celebrities I am Allowed To Shag' list. After all, what chances were there of bumping into him again?

(Note to self: must inform Dr B. about the 'Five Celebrities I Hope I Get Permission To Shag' laminated list.)

* Dinner = 'midday meal'. Or 'evening meal', if that's the main meal of the day. You not always get it from the context.

** Tea = 'evening meal', in the UK. As well as 'cup of'. You get it from the context.

This entry was posted on Tuesday, July 12th, 2005 at 4:37 am and is filed under uncategorized. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.