(no subject)
I suppose the big news is I visited a really top notch tea shop the other day. ten on ten for there lemon drizzle cake as well. Its down near the seafront in Brighton if you fancy it.
As you can tell from that, I've been to Brighton. For The Great Escape festival. Excellent stuff, saw lots and lots of good bands, some famous (Art Brut!) and some not famous (Rolo Tomassi!). Really good few days, I got hideously drunk every day and as I was on my todd befriended other folk there. Props to the girl I spent the first night with - considering I'd been drinking whisky with old-timers in the pub watching the Test Match all afternoon by the time I met her I was somewhat shaky. Anyway, lovely girl, 26 (go me) and a most enjoyable gig buddy for the rest of the evening (for she was also on her own). I have barely any recollection of anything after we left the last venue. All i know is that we ended up in some shit club where what I believe folk call "drum & bass" was playing. I also remember I kept nodding off in their. Apart from that small snippet of memory I can recall fuck all. Next I know its the next morning, Jeremy Kyle o'clock and I have "try and stay wake next time" scrawled on my hand in girls handwriting. The mind boggles.
I'd go into a blow by bloy account of the rest of the weekend but this'll probably do: "teashops, whisky, beer, whisky, pier, beach, tea, beer, whicky, cricket, whisky, beer, rock, bands bands bands, whisky". The last night was a bit of a shitter, British Sea Power rocked offstage at half elevenish leaving me with about five hours until my train. Low Point, especially as I didnt have a B&B for that night and unlike the past two mild, warm, nice nights, this night was FUCKING COLD. I found a club which still have stuff going on and sat there for the next 3 hours before being turfed out around half two to wander the streets for a couple of hours and generally contract hypothermia. Frightened a nice family on the train (making a journey to london for the cricket) by generally looking like an absolute wreck by sleeping across the seats, looking ruined, shaking and necking whisky from a plastic bottle in an effort to warm the fuck up. Disapproving looks allround. I was by this point also wearing four tea shirts as well as my dirty hoody and hence looked like a tramp. Arrived back at number 52 at about 8 in the morning. Just time to scoff some food, have a "shit shave n shower" and then off to work I went. Not fun at work I can tell you.
So there we go. Apart from that high spot my time is mainly taken up by working at Jones. Isn't life fun.
This update will be with added photos later. Woo!
Any suggestions incidentally for the official "Number 52 Filthy Cocktail Night"? This idea has stemmed from a conversation between me and HMS Iain about felching. So now we have a cocktail called the "Maternal Shit Felcher". And one called "the virgin fister". It was all Iain's idea really. He's clearly going to hell.
Photos:
Your Correspondent. Recovering.
A healthy mixture, add one x graham greene novel to a smattering of Jeremy "Jezza" Kyle and mix vigorously.
The question on a nations lips when booking a cheap B&B. Not "does it have bed" or even "how much does it cost" but "is there a travel kettle and a complimentary tea bag set?" Its the dealbreaker.
I broke the pier
Rolo Tomassi. Young (as in like 16!). Insane. Brilliant. Go See!
And people thought I was drunk when I said BSP were playing in a giant cow. Actually inside the cow. Cool.
Its beautiful.