Tuesday, May 17, 2005


I drowned my sorrows from Saturday by going out in the evening and drinking lots of cheap vodka and dancing. This compounded my sorrows on Sunday morning. We went to Blow Up at the Metro on Saturday, the rarest of things - a club that actually plays the sort of music listed on the flyers, rather than just treating them as a series of aspirations to be acheived in the fullness of time, parliamentary majority allowing.

And talking of music, Coldplay-disdaining comment-leaver and fellow blogger Trixie DJs at this club with this playlist (my linking arm is hurting and turning blue) which looks just brilliant, as any night that allows me to dance to Annie's Chewing Gum while drinking cut-price vodka must be. The only trouble is the club has a 'gay and lesbian majority door policy', which I like to imagine has Peter Snow, desperate to avoid the post-election depression he normally succumbs to, lurking outside the club with his swingometer, estimating what the queue outside will do to the sexuality configuration inside. Sounds like good fun though.


  1. Hehe. As long as you don't look like you're going to go psycho and 'kill all the gays' then they wouldn't not let you in.

    p.s. BOO @ Coldplay :-)

  2. Ah, the old double negative - part of the arsenal of confusing linguistic gymnastics that I use to such heartbreaking effect in my career as petty bureaucrat.

    Were I able to drag my old bones out to a club on a school night, I would make the following promises on behalf of me and my cronies:

    - Definitely no killing all of the gays, or indeed any of the gays, or indeed anyone, or indeed anything. It would be like Buddha himself was out on the town drinking fizzy lagers and losing his cloakroom ticket, really.
    - No requests for Coldplay, unless it's in the interests of national security. If there's a yellow alert or something, and we have to have it announced through the medium of jangly midpaced plodding joy-deficient music. Oh, and the final word on Coldplay can be found here which even though written when Coldplay Martin looked like he was a roadie for Cast still holds truer than most online encyclopaedias.
    - Dancing like your dad guaranteed.