Saturday saw the mad dash from Hell around fancy old London town. Zipped over to the old stomping grounds for a quick trim at Tony the Greek's haircutting establishment - you really can't go wrong for £7. Okay, I'm sure you can go wrong for £7 but I never seem to have before and as the saying goes, the only difference between a bad haircut and a good haircut is a week (take note Ms Manson). Then, to remedy the "oh fuck, I have a wedding to go to tonight and have absolutely nothing to wear" blues, the crowds of Oxford Street were fought through to purchase a serviceable shirt, pants and belt. And a pressie for Iain was squeezed in there too.
Knackered already, one tarted oneself up and headed off to Blackheath to meet Geezer Chris and his girlfriend for a swifty before heading towards Greenwich and my old boss Carl's hitching ceremony. A fine old time was had by all - a complete partner fest it was too so I managed to finally meet all the long-suffering and varied "others" that they're always chattering on about ... the red-headed one, the tall intellectual one, the plucky East London one, the Irish one, and yes, the bridal one.
As the witching hour struck, Cinders picked up her skirts and headed over to Streatham to assist in the celebration of Iain's aging process. Most. Alcohol. Ever. Whomever decided that pulping three apples and a half bottle of vodka equalled a cocktail was barking up the completely wrong leafy organism I can assure you. We remained thankful however that the seal on the advocaat remained intact.
Flash forward to 5am and four webloggers ended up in a bed, to be joined in the morning by a slinking-back-in ex and a straight boy with a penchant for bad jokes and horrific tales of veneral disease and verdant ejaculate.
Oh, and this really is an underrated film, isn't it?
‹ 19.2.02
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