Exams are over, dear reader, so hopefully I can begin to pick up this ol’ blog thing again. It was my birthday on Friday (THE 23RD OF MAY I AM SO LATE AND SHIT), but I stupidly decided to drink a hell of a lot of whisky the night before, and spent the morning shivering in a towel and gagging into my sink. This bodes badly but probably accurately for the year to come. My mother bought me a badge that looks like a jammy dodger, a bottle stopper that looks like an apple, a mirror that looks like a chocolate digestive, and some children’s socks with butterflies on. Thanks ma. I also got some handmade RuPaul’s Drag Race badges which are amazingly awful.
Once I’d got over my crippling hangover, I went to the St Moritz club in Soho, and watched the Dirty Gentleman, who were really very good. The guitarist looks a bit like the old Daario Naharis (you know I ❤ him) and I did that old thing where you fall in love with somebody for an evening. OBVIOUSLY I didn’t go and talk to him afterwards, ‘cos that would mean I was actually a functioning human being, which I’m clearly not.
The real celebration was yet to come though, and on Saturday me and my posse/entourage/crew headed over to Crucifix Lane near London Bridge to attend Whirl-y-gig. I was serving up some fairy princess realness – paint on my face, garland in my hair, Peroni in my bloodstream and MDMA in my bra. I think it’s safe to say that it was the best night I’ve had since coming to uni, which probably means it was the best night out of my life. I’ve been to a few other nights which are mainly facilitators for taking drugs, but this was different – it didn’t leave me with that grimy, regretful feeling. Even the security and bar staff were friendly and you could tell that they wanted to be there.
I went around all night putting my garland on different people’s heads and taking photos, ‘cos I’m THAT kind of wastrel, and bought a little flute and played it to the music all night. In hindsight, I must’ve looked like a complete prick, but I felt glorious and full of love and empathy for everybody and urgh this is sickening isn’t it? Speaking of which, I marred my evening by chucking up in the smoking area on both my shoes and another girl’s, ‘cos my URL really isn’t true. Luckily, I’m a pretty charming gal and managed to make friends with said sicky-shoed girl, and she even gave me her water. SICK.
And so the night continued, dancing with ginger-dreadlocked men and buying more drugs probably mainly consisting of washing powder and laxatives. This was all to the sweet beats of DJ Monkey Pilot and the Dance Trance Sound System. Not only is this my favourite name ever, but I think he might be my favourite man ever – he was about 60 and DJ’d for 8 hours straight in a sombrero and a poncho. The music was highly superior to your standard London club night – a mixture of ambient dance music, drum ‘n bass, trance and just a little bit of witchcraft (I would call it ‘eclectic’ but my mum hates that word because she thinks stupid people use it to sound clever.)
At about 5:30, or 6:00 (don’t ask me to keep track of time, I simply can’t do it), everybody sat down on the floor in the main room and the staff pulled a parachute over us. My friends and I languished all over one another, and everybody passed spliffs around. The lights were shining through the fabric, and the parachute was moving up and down above us and if you’d asked me at the time, I’d probably have said that it was magic.
It wasn’t, of course, and the night faded into the day and we made our tired way across London with the morning commuters hating us. My friend had to go to Portsmouth the following day at 10:30 and go out for a family roast dinner with his mum who lived in Australia and he hadn’t seen since July. I felt incredibly sorry for him as the rest of us rolled around on the bed, easing ourselves back to reality with calmer drugs.
We went back to Crucifix Lane for an event called ‘Wonderland’ but it just wasn’t quite the same – fun but not fantastical; good but not great; a party but not pure.What was so special about Whirl-y-gig was the utter unexpectedness of the whole thing – the colour, the amazing people. It was the clubbing equivalent of a marshmallow (not that I can eat them, fucking gelatine) – soft and lovely and colourful. I’ll leave you a link to the awfully designed website so you can go along if you live in London; I highly recommend it.
I’ll try and post more now that I’m basically free for 4 months.