Party pants


In an attempt to bolster my new, sunnier outlook (‘We’re all fucked so have a laugh’, see below) I have been trying to kick the old me into touch. Results have been patchy – the grumpy version has been in the ascendant for too many months to give up easily – but the cause received a massive boost over the weekend.

A load of weeks ago I said yes to a gig that took place last Friday. I haven’t been to a gig in years, and I knew that come the Wed or so prior to the event, the regrets would start. The excuses, the wishings-away, the general dohnwanna, which would build in intensity until Friday evening, when with bad grace I would pitch up and do my best to cast a chill over the proceedings.

I was foiled from the start. I walked from Tottenham Court Road, through the City, past the Tower to Cable Street to get to the venue. That’s a walk will always put me in a good mood. The sense of wellbeing was only heightened by the not-one-but-two Scotch eggs I plucked from my very posh handbag (debuted that day), which I ate as I walked. The amused glances and raised eyebrows from tiddly City boys just made me even more giggly with life.

The gig was in Wilton’s Music Hall, a dreamily fantastic theatre of dilapidated Victoriana that has also served as a Methodist chapel and, mystifyingly, a rag-sorting warehouse (factoids courtesy of Ben’s iPhone). The paint is peeling, the floorboards are warped and the place reeks with charm. The band were the Destroyers, whom I had failed to even check out on the link I was sent by the organising friend.

I knew it wasn’t going to be shite German metal, despite the name, but on the other hand I wasn’t expecting the absolute explosion of joy, delight and crowd-surfing, nor the stompy, shouty, beer-soaked whooper that I was to become by the end of the night. 15 Gogol Bordello-flavoured musicians (but from Brum), playing all manner of musical styles, from an Arabic opener that shaded Moorishly into Spanish, crazy gypsy into heartbreaking Yiddish tunes into Jewish wedding whirl and a final, wild Irish ceilidh. That finished me off, leaping about, dividing my pint equally between my gut and my trousers – I don’t care I don’t care – abandoning my handbag and just going nuts.

The next night was a far more sedate affair – the first Christmas party of the season, in North London. Thanks to those unladylike Scotch eggs and the fact that my trousers drank half my beer, I awoke unscathed and so for once I actually enjoyed the party. In general I find yuley gatherings more of a trial of strength as guests attempt to outdrink their hangovers – enriched with incipient/recent chest infections – using only mulled wine and a really overheated room, at 4 in the afternoon.

Laugh more, dance more, drink less. QED.



2 Responses to “Party pants”

  1. 1 kerry

    i’m glad to see you’re carrying the ultimate party snack with you during the festive season. you should think of yourself as a walking buffet for the month of december – someone pass the nuts!

  1. 1 Sticky sticky sticky « Vanessa Harriss's Blog

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