Big Weekend. Part 2

Often, when an evening comes to an end, I’m glad to get to be heading back home, but on Saturday night that wasn’t the case. When everybody wanted to leave, I would have been happy to stay a while longer. Honestly, most nights, by the time I’ve managed to get everyone to go, I’ve been bored for a fair while.

I’m really glad everything worked out so well. Typically, when my friend tries to organise these get-togethers, nobody turns up. This time, however, there were at lest fifteen people in attendance. The evening started in the basement bar of the Glasshouse Stores on Brewer Street in Soho. Mindful that the handful of people that started the evening would eventually become a huge group, we quickly took a place at the largest table in the pub. Unfortunately, within seconds we were ejected. Apparently the table had been reserved. Quite why a reserved notice couldn’t have been plonked down on the table before we sat down, just after 6pm when the basement bar opened, I don’t know. In retrospect, though, I’d say it all actually worked out for the best. If everybody had an easy, convenient place to sit, I doubt there would have been us much mixing and cross chatter.

After I’d eaten dinner, a not at all that bad for a pub Chicken Tikka Masala, I spent much of the time flitting about between groups. I don’t really understand why I felt so exuberant, I just was. When last orders were called, and it came time to find another venue in which to continue the revelries, I didn’t even consider going home. I just casually went along with everybody as they decamped to The Borderline. I say everybody, but the vast majority of the group were bound for the last train home; only six of us remained behind, destined to reach our journeys end on a night bus.
The Borderline was, as ever, great. I’ve always been a fan of music of the indie rock persuasion and, since that’s all they play at The Borderline, I was well catered for. I can’t say exactly when we left, I hadn’t checked my watch all evening. What I do know is that I could quite happily have stayed for much longer.

Often, when an evening comes to an end, I’m glad to get to be heading back home, but on Saturday night that wasn’t the case. Honestly, most nights, by the time I’ve managed to get everyone to go, I’ve been bored for a fair while.

I really do find it hard to explain my good mood. For some inexplicable reason, throughout the entire evening I’d felt overwhelmed by a feeling of euphoria. I’d talked to random people at the bar, chatted away happily to friends and acquaintances. It sounds strange to say, but I was just unaccountably happy.

My good cheer even saw me through a trip to the Strand branch of McDonalds. Although I refused to eat there (after a certain time they will only serve meals. Pointless and exploitative when I, and I’m sure many others, would only require a burger) I did want to make use of their toilet facilities. Yet more talking to strangers ensued. Whilst waiting in the queue for the toilet I got chatting to a girl who was clearly being mocked for her burgerlessness by her Big Mac chomping housemate. My theory about McDonalds exploiting drunken customers by only serving means only fell on quite hostile ground, but after a while, I finally managed to get a laugh or two out of the girl.

Of course, that’s how I felt I’d come across. In actual fact I may have seemed like a blithering idiot. The girl from the McDonalds toilet thought so, at least initially. It’s so hard for me to tell. I mean, I could have just imagined all the good stuff.

Anyway, whilst I was on top, I felt really good. Of course, it wasn’t to last. The manic phase would, as was always the case, be followed by a massive come down. This time, I would have to say, it was a hell of a lot worse and longer lasting than usual. My evening on high, as it turns out would cost me a couple of days in the doldrums. It all started when I left everybody else behind so as I could find my nightbus. Typically, and this seemed to be the public transport trend for the evening, I managed to miss the bus by a few seconds. One day I really must try and remember exactly where it is that I catch a Harrow bound nightbus. Having to checks practically all the routes posted by every bus stop around Trafalgar Square is a bit of a bind. Usually, when I get the nightbus back, I head straight upstairs. This time however, I took a seat downstairs, just behind the exit doors. Unfortunately my inferior vantage point was made worse by the dirt caked across the window next to me

So I spent the trip back staring despondently out of the grime stained window, desperately trying to work out if the bus really was going in the right direction (I don’t trust night bus drivers. Not after the night when I ended up having to walk all the way home from Sudbury one night despite the driver’s insistence that the bus was bound for Harrow). I was distracted only by a need to curse the crapness of my new iPod remote. This particular one had cost £30 but was probably more useless than the cheap eBay crap I’d just had to send back. And so it was from Harrow Bus Station that I was forced to walk home with only the mildly distorted music coming from my iPod to keep me company throughout the freezing cold night. Actually, for the sake of accuracy, I should say that I pressed the button to get off right before Harrow Bus Station (there really are far to many stops on most bus routes if you ask me). Despite the fact that I only had to get up from a seat right behind the door, the bus driver still managed to shut it in my face before I exited. I really do hate those guys. Would it be terribly paranoid of me to say that I’m sure they all have it in for me?
I went though my front door mere moments after four and prepared a snack of cheese toasted on baguette (lovely with some ketchup on top) to help soothe me though the hangover that had already started before the night had come to an end.

I spent much of Sunday in bed, not arising until after 2pm and then returning to bed once more at 6.30. Today I fared little better. I had no desire to leave the house, but if I wanted to claim the money back for my defective iPod remote I would, by necessity, have to make a trip to Watford. Of course I could have simply gone to Harrow Town Centre, but that place would have just depressed me even further. Invariably, what with it being Christmas, there would be even more Charity collectors littering the streets, and I was in no mood to deal with any of them, at least not with any civility. Fortunately, HMV accepted the remote back with no trouble whatsoever. On the way back I picked up some essential supplies from Tesco (Doritos, Pringles and yet more Pepsi Max), availed myself of their cheap petrol made even cheaper by a voucher good for a 5p per litre discount, and headed back home.

In the last few days I’ve been sometimes up and sometimes down. Today I’ve mostly been fine. Yesterday I was fine whilst I was helping my friend to fix his PC (and simultaneously realising how much better Macs are, but that’s for another post), but after he left I felt just as bad as ever.

By the way, as a postscript to this, I do think I may have, on Saturday, said something to one of my friends that, due to my gabbery, inarticulate nature at the time, may have been easy to misinterpret. I will say right now, I meant no real offence, that is, if any was caused.