I am the Egg Man

Last night there were two birthday bashes: one for Nicholas, my new flatmate, and one for Cath, who you all know and love because you read this all the time, you sad gits. First off, we were supposed to meet Cath at eight at Nic's Bar, roughly fifty metres from the bedroom in which I type this (I love Angel). That didn't happen, because I'd been waiting for my new deck stand to arrive. I won't go into that too much, but let's just say that shelling out £300 for a bloody set of shelves on wheels is one thing when it's decent wood and well made, but it's another thing entirely when it shows up as a kit set and is evidently made from fucking chip board crap with a beech *veneer*. Amused I was not.

Anyhow, we eventually made it to Cath's do, which was fun. Expensive not-very-alcoholic-actually cocktails and tequila abounded. I hadn't seen Cath's boyfriend Dave since New Year's Day after snogging Cath at midnight (all explained in an earlier entry) and then legging it back to London on the first train the next day. Needless to say, I was a little nervous about this. I knew he wouldn't be that bad, as you'd generally expect a 6'5" guy with, admittedly, quite the proficiency in Tae Kwon Do to vent his frustration fairly immediately after snogging his bird. So we had a nice chat and I forced some conciliatory tequila down his throat. Foolishly, he's apparently started taking drumming lessons on Saturday mornings, so he wasn't 100% keen on this. More fool him, say I. Anyhow, that all went smoothly enough. What didn't go utterly smoothly was the strained two-word conversation ("Hi."[sour look] "Hi."[return sour look]) with the First-of-January strangler. Yes, the one who came back to the bed n breakfast and awoke me with the first good hard throttling I've had since I was ten and my brother moved out.

Anyway, we hung out there till the place shut and came back to the flat to begin Nick's festivities. He showed up home with Phillipe, their semi-transexual friend who was coming out with us. After a few drinks and general party-oriented fun, the flat headed out to Egg, supposedly the club of the moment, in King's Cross. Oddly for the club of the moment, it was mostly empty. When we went in, some electro punk type band was on. They seemed ok, if not a little amateur. After this, Nicholas and I ran to the front and started dancing as the dj came on. Immediately half the place joined in, so whaddaya know, we're a hit. The next few hours, as ever, are a blur. I talked to just about everyone in the place, and found out the next morning that apparently Billy Zane, of all people, was not only there, but sought us out on the dancefloor. Fair enough, we were on fire. We were obviously a hit, actually, because Carrie was told we could all have our names permanently added to the guest list. Nice.

We came home and things continued unabated, as they have a way of doing in this flat. Liz and I attempted to crash out at around six, only to resurface just in time to not be arsed going to art school at 10. The others were still up, and after Liz left to attend the lovely Lola's first birthday party, began discussing plans to either "go to Giraffe and have breakfast"[disdainful look] pr "go to a pub and get slaughtered." Luckily for me, neither happened. After a few more hours' kip though, I woke up to find Helga roaming around in a dress she'd found in her bag and the others still awake. This was 4pm.

The other thing I found on waking up was Kirsty. Kirsty is an ex girlfriend from with whom I haven't spoken in about five years, and there she was online. Anwyay, we chatted for a few hours which was all very nice. She's had a beautiful baby boy (no, not mine, I haven't spoken to her for five years, remember?). It did end with what seems to have been a complete misunderstanding though, so apologies if you see this Kirst, and do email me again. Nice to know people you once loved have grown and become whole human beings. Or maybe just stopped hurling axes at photos of me..

In the afternoon, I wandered up to Tinderbox, and had to rescue Amy from going out with Natalja and some twat of a customer who's been systematically asking all of the girls working there to go out with him and finally succeeded by pretending to be going out on a date with her. Five minutes after I was invited on this phantom date, I was thrown back in the pond and she agreed to go out with Natalja anyway. Probably for the best, I'm a shit liar and the Jack Ritter thing wouldn't sit well with me. So there went my Phantom Date. And no, Gareth, that doesn't mean I temporarily had two arseholes. You'll never get that lucky.

I got home at about 9pm and found Helga still crashed out in the lounge and looking very glamorous indeed, sunglasses on head and arms flung out flamboyantly in the pink backlight:

Liz arrived home and we all sat out in our faux garden, which is in fact a small square of tar in the middle of the industrial back end of our place and the local shops (one of which we live above) and drank wine for about an hour then passed out.

To see photos of our fabulous evening (mostly from my phone, so don't bitch about the quality) go here: 'http://toeslikefingers.com/images/photos/jun0703.