Who killed Bubba?

Don't ask me, I was drunk.

Last Saturday Lyn held a murder mystery party. It was rather hilarious. Set in a small town in the backwoods of Texas, someone called Bubba had been murdered. And we were the suspects.

Lyn had decked out her house in flags and US memorabilia and guests were greeted by the soothing sounds of the white man's blues, otherwise known as Country and Western. Dinner was chilli con carne, corn and potatoes and all sorts of tasty fare that they probably don't eat in the South at all, but that we just think they do. It was tasty though.

My role was that of a country and western wannabe who ran a karaoke night at the local saloon. I was possibly having an affair with someone and may have been in cahoots with someone else over something or other, but I can't really remember. I was too drunk. As half the party had turned up late, Annette and I nad knocked back a few too many, er, sasparillas and by the time the game started we had no idea what was going on. But we all enjoyed speaking in a Southern accent and singing karaoke before finally we'd drunk everything, revealed the murderer and were ready to go home.

And on the night bus home I tried my hardest not to look as a fat, ugly, white girl who spent the entire journey talking into her phone with a Jamaican accent. It did cross my mind that she may have eaten one or two black girls and they were inside trying to fight their way out...

Pull shapes

 

The gig-madness continued on Wednesday night with a trip to the Shepherd's Bush Empire. After an excellent gig at Camden's Koko last week, we were really looking forward to the Pipettes. And after a dinner of dim sum at Ping Pong on Eastcastle street, we trundled along with our standing tickets looking forward to a good dance and a sing-a-long.

Except Shepherds Bush Empire is crap. Whereas other venues have sloping floors so that everyone can see the band, Shepherd's Bush doesn't. So average-height Megan and Brenna couldn't see the band through the crowd. Gah. We ended up standing by the bar as this spot actually had the best view. The Pipettes were great though, and they did what it says on the label- 60's girl pop, harmonies and back-combed hair.

Friday night brought back the Eurovision/ Swedish schlager theme as Terese and I headed off to a Swedish schlager party in central London, and spent the night dancing to all your schlager favourites. And pestering the DJ for Piccadilly Circus.

Unfortunately it wasn't all dancing and smiling as my lovely camera decided to go walkabout and hasn't been seen since. I love you my beautiful IXY! Come home soon...

Party, Bjorn and NightBus

 

The weekend was not uneventful.

Saturday was Fred's birthday party, which Terese and I went to. We'd planned to stay a while and then go to a hat party in South London, but the lure of booze and schlager music ensured that we couldn't leave and indeed we stayed longer than everyone else. Oops. And we all trundled off to the Black Cap in Camden to drink more and watch a terrible Philippino transvestite sing songs well and over rely on the phrase, "me lub you rong time" to raise a non-existent laugh.

The crowning glory of any night out in London is the nightbus trip home. And the wildlife you may see there.

Saturday night was a corker. Tired and slightly fed up that I have a possible 2 hour trip home on the bus, I plonk myself on the first seat available. Only for some dirty man with drug-induced pressure of speech and crutches to sit down opposite me and start off on his hard-luck story which ends with him aggressively asking for money. Apparently he tried to kill himself a few weeks ago but broke both his legs and he's a successful rapper and he's just down on his career and HE JUST NEEDS SOME HELP TO GET HIMSELF BACKONHISFEETANDIDON'TLIKEASKINGBUTINEEDSOMEHELPHAVEYOUGOTANYMONEY?

"Sorry, no." I replied firmly.

"WHYAREYOUBEINGLIKETHIS. MATE"

"Because it's true." I stated.

"Oh. Sorry", he said, and walked off, his crutches dangling from his upper arms.

And then I change buses and sit down, only for a man to sit opposite me. I spent the next 20 minutes trying not to look at him. Why? Because he looked rough as [insert expletive]. On his knuckles wsa tattooed the words "L.O.V.E" and "H.A.T.E" and his left eye was a little bit mushy looking and rather unlike an actual eye.

What else can happen on the night bus? Well, as we reached the end of the journey (which ended three stops earlier than usual for some reason) and the bus driver told everyone to get off I spotted a man asleep. So everyone got off, and I called out to the bus driver and asked him to hang on a moment while I wake up the man. And as the man wakes up, the bus starts moving. Heading back into central London. How nice. And it stops suddenly at traffic lights. So I ask the bus driver to open the doors and let us off and he starts shouting at me. I shout back. I walk up to the cab and explain that I just asked him to wait a minute and he just starts having a go at me again. At which point I just put my hands up and shout "OH, WHATEVER".

Night buses are fun.

On Sunday Terese and I went to see a Swedish band, Peter, Bjorn and John. Except that John was stuck in Dublin, so some un-named hotness was playing the drums. Terese and I were both tired and miserable, feeling like pensioners at a too-cool-for-school kids club. And after the crap support artists and rotten dj we were ready to go home, but fortunately the band were great. Bizarre, but great with guitar solos, singalongs and on-stage fights.

Swedish bands are fun.

Eurovision season begins.

Alleluia!

 

Thursday night marked the start of Eurovision season proper as the London's Retro Bar (gay, indie bar) held a mock semi-final. And I was there to attend! The evening started of in a most convivial manner with a mini picnic in the park by embankment station, and with Terese and Swedes Peter and Fred in tow, we headed off.

And soon we were drunk. (Boo). At eight PM they put the punters into groups representing the 42 countries taking part in the contest and then they showed the 28 semi-finalists' videos. And then we got to vote in true Eurovision style, awarding points 1-8, 10 and 12.

Now if you've never seen Eurovision you might not know that it has a huge gay following, and that this is often reflected in the performers. And that in the true Eurovision semi, the top 10 scorers are announced in random order to go through to the final. No scores are announced as it would give a clue to the final winner.

Except in Retro Bar, where they announced the winner. And who won? Was it DJ Bobo, the established Swiss Europop star? Was it Malta's Olivia Lewis, one of the overall favourites? Or was it the Serbian munter who is all about the (intensely dreary) song?

No.

The Retro Bar, surprise surprise, voted a tranny to pole position.




It is a good song. But it should have been Olivia...

And so today...

...once again, I wake up a little bit drunk.

Gah.

Spring into Summer

The last few weeks have been a bit quieter as I've launched into money saving activities such as: sitting indoors, walking the streets of London and only drinking at weekends. This has been a controversial decision and has been unpopular amongst some friends, but it does work. And it means less mornings where I wake up still feeling a bit tipsy. Clearly this is good. The weekend of March 24th also marked my first ever trip to see friends in Chelmsford where I didn't wake up unable to eat/ drink/ move/ remember where my socks are (in my coat pocket on one occasion).

 

Walking round London is never a bad thing as you get to appreciate the bits of nature there are, such as these crocuses in Postman's Park (a very lovely little park that is briefly in the hideously awful film "Closer"). It;s officially British summertime, but for some reason these crocusses were still going strong.