New Years Eve In Goa

Last sunset 2011. How sentimental of me.

That's it. Sun is gone. Thus ends 2011.

Back dated post (Well, clearly.)

The build up for New years Eve is such a killer. All that expectation, all that fear of failure.

The first part of the evening was excruciating.

I mean, I was sober.

With my parents.

We went to a restaurant in Goa called La Plage, which we had already eaten at two evenings out of five – It’s managed by 2 very attractive French women (Older, of indeterminate age. 45+ I should think.) who were very touchy-feely with all their patrons.

They made everyone feel like they were supremely important. Case in point: My PhD bawa neighbor (I’m just going to call him PhD from now on) was convinced one of the ladies was trying to hit on the ex because her hand lingered in what was assumed to be a highly suggestive manner.

The PhD’s and the ex’s thoughts, whatever the context of the situation, jump straight to sex. They both have uniquely one track minds. All I saw was a woman who knew how to do her job beautifully.

Ordinarily La Plage was excellent. Unfortunately they had succumbed to the New Years eve temptation – The greed had gone to their head and were massively over booked. So much so that we didn’t see dinner for 2.5 hours. I was nearly gnawing on the table by then. Starvation rarely adds to the convivial feeling.

Our PhD neighbor’s younger brother and his girlfriend also joined us for dinner, but since they seemed to be either on drugs or coming down off them they were in no position to contribute to any kind of cheer.

Our plan was to eat, watch the fireworks on the beach, then ditch the folks shortly after midnight and find some wild party. Dinner came just before 12. Mine was inedible. Half the patrons left their plates to watch the fireworks. We couldn’t leave the folks until 2 and I was sober until then.

YES! FUCK YES SOBER! STONE FUCKING COLD SOBER! Man I was irate.

Eventually the folks left and the ex managed to strong-arm us into a party, just by looking furious and saying with a thunderous frown

“We were just in here 5 minutes ago! Give us a stamp!”

I saw the man’s face. It’s an expression I’ve had many times on mine. It’s resignation and a desire to avoid a confrontation. He was clearly thinking,

“I know they weren’t here 5 minutes ago but I can’t be dealing with this at 3 in the morning. Just give them a stamp.”

The party was rubbish. I mean, it might have been fun had I been un-sober. But rave music is intolerable even on vast quantities of intoxicants. Sober it was excruciating.

I told PhD and the ex I’d had enough. Screw this night, I was going back to the hut to smoke the measly amount of mal I had managed to scrap, beg, borrow and steal together from kind, charitable souls.

Then just at that moment, coming out of the darkness of the beach, like a saviour, like Jesus, was some Bawa that PhD happened to know. We greeted him so joyously he might as well have been Jesus. (Or Zarathushtra, which would be more fitting, but the name is such a mouthful.)

“Do you guys want to party?”

Yes! by god yes! We do! We really really fucking do!

After that the night picked up.

We found other people we knew at another party with many more intoxicants.

We didn’t really have any other friends in Goa and sort of tagged along with this one group, which I must admit, felt a little uncomfortable. I don’t like satelliting around a group of friends. (But I’m uncomfortable naturally so that doesn’t count for much.)

I think my major tip while tackling the Goa party scene is to carry a roll of toilet paper in your bag. I wish someone had reminded me.

The loo was….*shudder*. I can’t even bear to remember it.

We rolled off back to our huts and I immediately had a shower and stiff scrub.

*shudder*

Sigh. All my stories seem to end in poo.

Number 2. The Solution

A solution to the problem of men being unable to pee and aim simultaneously mentioned in the earlier post.

Bulls-eye Toilet. Updated

Camille’s Dinner Party: Both Fernanda and Onnalin Pee in the Loo. It’s a MIRACLE!!

It is always a pleasant surprise when you walk to a bus stop and there are people there you happen to know.

It is even pleasanter when those people happen to be Onnalin and Martyn holding 4 dead chickens and a bag of potatoes.

Kingsland road is a scary place.

I don’t fucking care if it’s in zone one, it’s a fucking ghetto (and this is where Camille lives).

So Onnalin, Martyn and I are buzzed in and we drag the chickens up to Camille’s, which is a massive loft flat in this warehouse.

After about 3 hours of basting, stuffing and poking by Onnalin (class chef and resident foodie) the chickens were finally done. Everyone was fairly plastered by then, and much like a Natural Geographic Special, we attacked the poor chickens like ravenous hyenas. They were gone in minutes.

In between Martyn raving about Georgina’s digital camera

“WOW! These pictures are fantastic! Another one! It’s fantastic!! They are all fantastic!!”

he was also drunk enough to admit,

“I have to say actually, Foz does have a really lovely smile…”

He now denys this.

Bruna insisted Uhr was stalking her because when ever she turned around he was there.

She then spent 5 minutes petting my head. (Yes, I think she was a bit pissed)

I have a small related whine here: Delusional iPod DJ’s.

Highly annoying. Halfway through a song, some idiot thinking they can do better and wow us all with their taste in music, will change it. This happened continually at the party. My poor iPod was cast aside and plugged in, alternatively every 5 minutes or so until it’s battery died in protest.

Most of the class was at the party, including a whole bunch of random people who turned up at 1:00 am out of the blue. Camille suddenly and mysteriously disappeared, turning up the next day in the flat on the first floor.

She walked into her flat the next morning and instead of viewing a very lovely mess of cigarette butts and garbage, everything had been cleaned by Georgina and Mike who felt too guilty to leave without cleaning.

I’m so glad I left at 2:30 I must admit. Cleanup duty is really rotten.

Anyway, at about 2:30 I began the trek to the ex’s flat (The ex refused to accompany me on grounds of general lethargy).

Right next to Camille’s front door is a club with a que of drunken, dolled up people.

A little further down the road a group of girls were crying and screaming as 2 boys chased and beat each other up right in the middle of a traffic filled road. Two cops arrested them promptly. (Don’t you just love the East end at night?)

I mistakenly ran to catch an over crowded bus full of pasty red faced ‘lads’ while the very surly buss driver cursed, swore, muttered to himself and refused to let me off at my stop.

I had to take another bus back 5 stops.

The bad tempered bastard.

I hate winter.

Uhr follows an inebriated Bruna around.

He continues stalking Bruna, while she looks disgruntled.

Georgina, Fernanda and Tiphaine collectively maul Onnalin

Then they force Fernanda and Onnalin to smooch

We call out for Camille. "Caaaamiillllleee where aaaaaare youuuu?" we yell

Amalia and Fernanda on the far left make a pact to get married

Amalia and Fernanda seal their bond with a lot of tongue, and Ed joins us as an honorary woman

Uhr now seems to be scoping Bruna's behind as she looks up to where she's hearing the voices

He also seems to be checking out that guy in the white T shirt. Bruna does a quick salsa

While Ed looks deeply suspicious

Soon after Onnalin tries to smoke an imaginary cigarette

She then listens very carefully to Amalia

Georgina shows Amalia and Onnalin what a camera is

Onnalin then tries to seduce Amalia away from poor unsuspecting Fernanda

Surrounded by a multitude of women, Martyn looks serious

…seriously pissed. 'Ooo' he says to Amalia

Georgina looks to the heavens and prays that our show will go all right

Seminar drawing day

A bit late for college,

Gary making us draw each other

Inadequacy of my sketch book size,

I seem to have the smallest sketch book besides Chris

I feel a complex developing

This must be what guys feel like about their thingies.

HUGE hot chocolate for break-time more drawing

going to the pub to draw
the conversations
sketching
going to the photographer gallery
getting lost in Covent garden window shopping looking at books
going to the pizza place in china town and having a crispy duck pizza and drawing and swapping piss stories

Lisa’s piss stories
Emma’s piss story
So much pee and wee

More Piss Stories – I Know, I Know. But What Can I Do? I Have So Many

I was informed today, by someone, that they were pissing in the kitchen sink out of boredom. This is not surprising. Piss antics is a popular pastime of all the women I seem to know.

This person, at a pervious party, dragged me into the loo and insisted I pee in front of her. I demurely, but firmly refused, and requested she go first. Would she like some privacy? I asked. No.

So I’m looking up at the ceiling, down on the ground, at the door, on a huge map of Europe on the wall. Waiting, waiting….nothing….waiting……up, down, where is Berlin? Where is Stockholm? Oh wait there’s Brighton, oh wait, no that’s not……..

I’m asked to make water noises to help. So I do.

They work better than expected and she ends up peeing all over her hand. The other hand is holding a joint. I make her swap the joint for some toilet paper and hope for the best.

She is ushered out of the loo, commanded to go wash her hands while I try to avoid getting hand pee on me. Which, I might add, is very hard in a 3 foot bathroom filled with 2 semi-smashed women and I end up doing a little fox trot around the pot.

She stumbles out, pulling down her skirt and I’m left holding the confiscated joint, cautiously wondering if it has any pee on it.

Lastest Report!

Glorious news!

Fernanda pissed in an actual toilet early this morning.

This was greeted by many cheers and whoops of delight by all spectators.

A pinyata was then bashed to its untimely death.

This was again greeted by many cheers and whoops of delight.

Squat

Last Wednesday I convinced myself I was bored enough of sitting on my sofa to go out to a squat party.

My significant other had decreed by royal mandate, that from now on Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday would be spent in our own respective houses.

Of course, I could feel my own doom slowly approaching.

But as I mentioned before, I’ve built up a certain amount of resistance. (It’s about fucking time too).

There was a distinct lull in the air.

Generally, if things are going well for a little while, I know its only a matter of time before I’m bitten in the a**.

This usually involves alcohol. Symptoms include extremes in emotion, followed by erratic behaviour, irritation and mood swings. Which is then closely followed by rage, the sulks, verbal vomit, tears and finally passing out, leaving the shit, as it were, warm in my hands.

The only thing to do really is wait for it. (Avoiding confrontation is in my nature.)

So,

I went to this squat party.

‘Squat’ being an extremely appropriate word in this case. Fernanda, a midget sized Mexican firecracker, who has a bladder the size of a peanut wanted to pee everywhere except in the actual toilet.

(Which, surprisingly enough, had toilet paper and what was even more impressive, though there was a never ending queue of people waiting to be dehydrated, so far no one had pissed on the seat.)

So I’m walking around, on the street, in the middle of the night with Fernanda, desperately trying to convince her of all the wonderful qualities this particular loo possessed while she looks for a suitable car to pee behind. I cringe in horror as she skips off behind one.

30 seconds later, she skips back out. Impressed by her incredible beer-deploying speed, I dared to ask her if she was sure she didn’t own a penis and had just whipped it out.

Later, the cops stopped outside and we were confined in the warehouse, I desperately tried to convince her not the pee in the shower even though the toilet had just been vacated. (and was still reasonably clean with toilet paper to boot, which considering the amount of people that had used it by now was shocking.).

She didn’t listen of course. No one ever listens to me.

She ‘went’ in the shower.

Oh yes, about the party briefly:

I had reduced my expectations appropriately, high hopes would only be dashed.

For the first hour I was arrogantly pleased that the party met expectation.

A handful of scattered vagabond types, skater shoes, weird hair, round flat shoes. Very grunge-trendy. We parked ourselves on some stands with our beers and waited.

It picked up suddenly as the DJ played Russian music and every lethargic drunk danced around like a maniac.

Some guy decided it would be entertaining to take off all his clothes and dance enthusiastically without a stitch on except a T-shirt covering his face.

It only got better from there.

(PS – His penis didn’t seem very large, why would he want to show it off? Maybe it was average. I’m not really sure. What is average anyway? 5 inches? 6? 3-4?)