The Royal Wedding

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I’m not talking about Katie and the Willie.

I’m no monarchist. The ex and I planned our holiday to skirt the royal wedding entirely. (Although must admit, that was some nice wedding dress. Someone at work also showed me this photo below. Maybe we did miss out after all.)

An inopportune moment

I’m actually talking about Angela & Tom’s big day on Friday the 22, a week before Kata and Prince of Willies.

This is technically 3 posts squashed into one. I should really have paced myself or edited better.

Pre-Wedding: The Hen Night

In preparation for this huge event we had a girls night out on the 2nd of April that took dozens of emails back and forth from November 2010 onwards to organise everyone’s dates and calendars.

The Hen night started at 1pm, Luncheoning somewhere (I so love the word Luncheon, I think it needs to be resurrected), which I skipped, and then moved on to drinks (skipped) followed by the Thriller musical (also skipped) followed by more drinks at Liz and then a club night at the Proud @ O2 in Greenwich (which I attended).

There was no way I’d have lasted if I had started drinking by 1 p.m, a fact that will soon be attested for once you reach the end of this blog post.

The club was like, well good and that.Outside was a patio area, with a bar in the middle and big double beds arranged around the edge under heat lamps. Very nice, very chilled for when you was wanting some chilling, you get me?

Inside was a strobe lit dance floor and stage for some banging beats mon. You can tell how hip and with it I am by the lingo I use when I talk about clubbing. You should be like, well impressed an’ that.

The female and male toilets both had security guards (Both male) who were directing the peoples into the loos and then directing the peoples out of the loos. Very secure to prevent any kind of hanky-panky. There were a couple of indian cheapies stalking the dance floor, desperately looking for hanky-panky. They’d waltz up to one girl after another, dancing while asking relentlessly,

“Hies where you from? What your name? Wanna dance? Have boyfriend?”

You can imagine the conversation. Indian cheapies have a very fixed and standard repertoire usually exhaled heavily with minor bad breath. These cheapies were no exception.

I admire the cheapies amazing ability allow the rejection to flow off their backs like ducks and oil or oil and water or whatever that saying is. I wouldn’t ever dare hit on anyone in anyplace for fear of the rejection crushing my spirit and thus ruining my evening.

Hen Do all good. No drama.

Wedding day, my first ever English Wedding.

The first wedding I attended was my artist friend Ratna’s. It was very glamorous and Punjabi and lasted 5 days. Ratna, her mother and her sister were all crying all through the wedding ceremony, with the priest and the fire and the prayers (which lasts a good 30 – 40 mins).

It was almost some Bollywood drama: The dastardly villain has forced the family of the beautiful pure girl who in love with the poor but gold-hearted hero to make her marry him instead. Poor but gold hearted boy will have to leave village. Will heroine ever see him again?? Villain twirls his lumba mooch and laughs, hysterically. Full family crying-crying.

Later on at the reception (Wedding was in the morning, reception in the evening) the last thing I remember before I left (at 5 a.m) was Ratna still crying.

It was a good wedding.

So my first English wedding – Had the dress all sorted. Bought a pair of yellow heart glasses to match my shoes. I really love heart glasses, just wearing them makes me feel more cheerful.

Liz, the ex and I all caught a train down to Brighton using Liz’s Network Rail Card (I don’t understand what this is or how it works). The train was packed with holiday makers. A grotesque woman fell asleep next to Liz with her mouth wide open. I was feeling mighty cheerful even though I had a splitting headache so I put on my yellow heart glasses.

In order to purge my headache, as soon as we got to the hotel Liz and I went out to a park in Brighton to laze in the sun, chain smoke and drink Crabbies. Needless to say, my headache was not purged at all. If anything it was worse.

There was some woman at a fish and chip ship with 5 kids running around all over the place. Liz cooed over her baby which was only 2 months old. Internally I was revolted that she couldn’t use contraception after the first 2. Externally I had the expression of a saint. A saint who was revolted internally.

Then we finally went upstairs to get ready. I took a quick shower and drank more Crabbies. The cab guy who picked us up to take us to the Brighton Pavillion made me leave my Crabbies on the pavement. The ex tutted at me because I was acting like a lout, drinking out of the bottle. But Crabbies is just so darn delicious. I couldn’t waste it.

There was a brief round of drinks before the ceremony where I was faced with some excruciating moments of social awkwardness and awful conversational lulls. (Only for me. I’m sure other people are better socializers.)

This is why I took up smoking with such gusto. It fills those awful gaps with activity: Looking for the cigarettes, then looking for the lighter, asking around for a lighter, then lighting the cigarette, ashing here ashing there, fiddling with it, waving it around, blowing smoking rings, etcetera etcetera. Fun times.

Finally we went off to the Brighton pavilion to attend the civil ceremony. The bride’s gown was a modern, off-shoulder number in ivory (White, I am told, never suits red-heads.) The bouquet was of deep purple, nearly black lilies with the stems wrapped around with a simple white ribbon and the bridesmaids dresses were black to match. Very modern and chic. Service was shorter than the rounds of photos of the signing of the register that followed afterwards.

I think I’ve now done my duty about writing about wedding things. I covered dress, the bouquet and the bridesmaids. I used the word tres and elegant. Done. Sorted. Fini. The rest of this post is going to be all about me.

Finally after more drinking, we sat down to dinner. I still had a terrible headache. I like to think we had the coolest people on our table. This is of course, discounting myself, because I took a bite of the first course (smoked salmon) and promptly had an overwhelming feeling of dizziness and nausea. The ex looked at me, worried. Hurling during the wedding toasts is hardly proper ladylike behavior. So I bolted.

I ended up missing the entire dinner. Eventually the ex coaxed me (by sending various texts one after the other) to get up and come downstairs for dessert. I felt terribly guilty about skipping the dinner of course, but I think if you are going to disgrace yourself it’s better done behind the door of a locked room (Didn’t throw up in the end, just needed a little lie down, thank god. Just so you know.)

So this is why I never start drinking from 1 pm onwards. I never last.

Good news though. My headache was gone.

Then there was the post-dinner disco and dancing. The DJ was a cliché wrapped in a cringe which was wrapped in another cliche. He only just stopped short of playing the birdie dance.

There was a secondary party going on outside the Hotel for just the smokers. Darius and Liz, from what I could tell were largely outside smoking most of the evening. Every time the DJ played some shoddy song I would also go out and smoke.

The DJ was so bad I ended up almost chain-smoking all evening. That was about 2 weeks ago, and I’m still coughing now. I was coughing so badly last week that if it was in the middle of the night, I needed to get up out of bed and sit in the living room just so the ex wouldn’t wake up with my entire body being wrenched with all the hacking. House had an episode where some guy coughed up a bloody piece of his lung. Visions of that episode keeps floating across the back of my eyes.

I packed the night in at 1 am. The ex stayed out till a more respectable 2:30 am. Everyone else stayed out till 5.

Minor Drama:

The next morning the ex and I were both supremely cranky at breakfast. We squabbled all the way back to the train station. I wanted to stay in Brighton and loaf in the sun, the ex wanted to return and pack for our holiday to Espain.

The ex was then doubly annoyed when I delayed us and we missed one train (which had already been cancelled, so like that mattered) and it had additionally taken me ages to find a cab outside the hotel. The ex hates all delays of any kind. I want it and I want it yesterday.

Finally a train to London bridge was due at 2:54 pm. We ran along to catch it.

It had been my duty to purchase our train tickets from and to London, not just for the ex but for Liz as well.

You know, the Railway system is mighty baffling. Off Peak Single, Off Peak Day Return, Anytime Day return, Anytime Nighttime Return, A Single that you can only use between the times of 1 pm and 1:15 pm on alternate week days that do not include bank holidays and any religious festivals according to the Mayan calendar. Please read all 45 pages of the T&C’s for clarity. I mean there is no way a simple lay idiot like myself can figure it out.

I’ve come to realize I must never buy rail tickets online. It’s just too dangerous. You need a qualified and trained expert to tell you what the hell is going on. You also need a Rosetta Stone. I once bought a £200 ticket to Manchester on a Virgin only train to attend a 15 minute interview for a job that I didn’t even want. Who wants to move to Manchester anyway? My one brief glimpse of it told me all I needed to know. It’s shit. I hate it and I’m never moving there. The Gallaghers’ can bloody have it.

Can you tell I’m segwaying into a personal fuck-up here? Well if you can’t, I am.

I turns out I bought day returns instead of next-day returns. We only found out when the ticket guy wouldn’t let us on the train and the ex whipped around in absolute fury. Even though the ex was wearing dark shades I could tell lazer beams were shooting out of those eyes.

I yelped, looked at my ticket in panic and ran like the wind to a ticket machine to try to buy another ticket.

The ticket machine is about as confounding as buying online. I didn’t have my Rosetta stone on me (it was in my other jacket) so I decided to put myself into the hands of an expert.

I had to run to a ticket counter and praying all the time that we wouldn’t miss our train. I mean, the ex would bludgeon me in the teeth. I was already getting glares that were aimed at making me combust in a ball of flames.

There was a small que at the counter. I could feel the glares burning the back of my neck like a Vader laser. My blood pressure rocketed. The guy gave me 2 tickets to London.

The ex and I ran back to the ticket guy who let us though, I look down at my ticket and it said ‘Day Return’! What?? I don’t want a return! Oh fuck oh crap! The ex said

“Why the hell don’t you check things when you buy them!!??”

So I ran back to the ticket guy, showed him my ticket and I looked at him in absolute panic, like catching this train was life or death man!

“I just wanted a single! …He gave me this and….”

The guy calmly and briefly told me a return is cheaper than a single (Do you see what I mean?? Fucking baffling system! Everything is backwards!! Also if the original tickets I had bought had been correct, yet if Liz wasn’t traveling with us how would we have used that Network Rail card thing? Fucking baffling.)

So we boarded the train. The ex wasn’t talking to me. The ex texted Liz to let her know that the ticket I got her was fucked. Then I had to text Liz to apologize and try to refund her the ticket money. (I have to buy her a drink or two)

Some football supporters boarded the train and sat opposite me. I suddenly felt terribly depressed. Being hung over didn’t help either.

I can say sorry and all that, but I can’t ever promise

“So sorry, it won’t happen again! I swear.”

It is seriously unlikely that I will ever stop fucking up. In life. Forever. I had not even the slightest inkling that the tickets were wrong. But I never do, before the event.

So I put my yellow heart shades on because I felt sure I’d probably start crying soon. I could feel it pricking the back of my eyeballs already. (Partly because I could feel the ex sitting in a corner, hating me and my incompetence and partly because I was frustrated with myself.)

Which I did. Nearly all the way back to London.

So much irony, no? Crying behind heart shades. Sheesh.

The ex forgave me half way, somewhere near Gatwick.

The Quest Continues

Lesbianswholooklikejustinbieber

In the continued quest to discover the hidden (from me) lesbian world of London, A4 and I decide to pay a visit to Trash Palace.

This wasnt the Trash Palace of yore –  a cosy little nook, hidden in a lane near Leicester square (where Waxy’s Little Sister is), but it’s reincarnation on Old street.

I don’t know why they would move to Old Street. On the map it wasn’t really that close to Shoreditch and Hoxton. It was on Old Street road, near many print shops offering large-scale scanning. (Must remember to call and see if they scan A1 and get costing.)

I have vaguely fond memories of Trash Palace. I went there on a date once with a semi-androgynous blonde. I wasn’t particularly keen and they played music so loud it was impossible to have a conversation.

So we made out for about two hours. (In front of everyone, so shameless – We weren’t even secreted in some corner. I’m mildly embarrassed thinking about it now.)

Then we both got on the tube. I lost all interest immediately and went home.

Never saw that person again.

Ah, good times.

The tube has always been a mojo killer for me. Those fluorescent lights (never flattering), forced to make awkward conversation (because even I am not so shameless to make out on the tube in front of random drunken louts) while travelling to some hole of a stop in zone 2/3/4 for 20 mins. There is no way sex can happen after that.

There far too much time to reflect and reconsider.

I usually reconsider.

The only way sex can happen is if you take a cab and it takes less than 10 mins to get there. If possible, make out in the cab.

So A4 and I are walking up and down Old Street, in a biting wind, looking for this place. My jacket has a high collar, so I squash my furry purple hat down on my head and yank up collar up above my nose. I manage to hold it there by keeping my shoulders shrugged in a very uncomfortable way. All you can see are my eyes. I think this is a look I want to cultivate. I wish they’d make a jacket that had a collar that went over your head but had peep holes for your eyes.

Anyway, so we are walking, we are walking. There seems to be no sign of this place.

A4 fortunately has gmaps on a second-hand iPhone. All I have is my keen sense of direction.

We get to the end of the street, google map is clearly pointing to a bar that is:

1. Called something like ‘Noma’ except I can’t be sure because the font they used is one of those curly ones. Entirely illegible.

2. Not remotely ‘gay’ looking

2. Seems closed.

Perhaps google maps is wrong. Lets look on their website.

Website (an annoying Flash nonsense of a site) showed exactly the same thing.

So I asked 2 boys in a car if they knew where it was

“Yea. We do. Want to get in?”

“Uhm… no thanks.”

So we wandered up and down for ages before we headed back to Angel. A4 wanted to go to Shoreditch but the ex called me mildly irritated that we were lost and A4 was sympathetic enough to know that partners ought to be placated.

So I think we went to the Green again. In a way, I rather enjoy these gay quest failures.

They add a certain sense of adventure to drinking.

I’m not sure where Trash Palace is now. I don’t dare look for it again.

I only just found this site lesbianswholooklikejustinbieber and I realised I way behind the lesbian times.

I really need to get my posse together quickly.

Profile. Gay.

It's pretty when its empty. But then, I think that about all places.

One of the ex’s friends had a birthday party at Profile in Soho. Baffling choice for a girl. The bar was gay central – If you like Muscle Marys and shirtless bar tenders.

The entrance to the bar, which was essentially a 10 foot corridor (see photo on right) fitting on a handful of cramped tables had people sitting down eating a full dinner to the seriously loud and shady techno music the DJ was playing. The DJ was loving his music. He was so hot for himself, he couldn’t believe it.

This was not my kind of gay bar. It got very crowded ,very fast, mostly with men who looked like someone had inflated them with a bicycle pump. That probably didn’t help either. Burly men take up far too much room. I think bouncers ought to take that into account when doing a head count.

I got fed up pretty soon into the evening, once the place got packed. Unfortunately I was duty bound to stick around, at least for a bit longer.

To entertain myself I played little games with myself. It was hard to hold a conversation in there. We were standing right next to the speakers and the self-lovin’ DJ.

I tried imagining I was a gay man. Would this bar be cock heaven? Would I just wander around with my penis bursting from the seams, reading to pounce on any bloke for a little bum-bum? Would I be having a good time? Would I go for the weedier, skinny guys or the big ol’ burly ones?

I think if I was gay I’d probably be into bears. I don’t like burly men who are hairless – It looks unnatural. A big beard and many tattoos. Hot. Maybe some kind of ex-con.

I really love that novel Maurice, by E.M. Forrester. It’s a great gay love story. A repressed Englishman bonks the young under-gamekeeper. (I love the term ‘Under Gamekeeper’. Anyone doing that job is begging to be bonked.) It has a happy ending. I love happy endings, especially in gay fiction. Leave the unhappy endings for real life.

Gay men largely seem to get better love stories. I stopped reading female gay fiction after a while. It just got too depressing and in a way even the L Word is depressing. Everyone is constantly bitching, back stabbing or cheating. Nothing good ever happens and if it does, you know it can’t last. I can’t handle that kind of stress and disappointment in my fantasy life. At least that should go smoothly.

Speaking of sex, A4 sent me to her friends blog who writes (or at least wrote) about homo-sex. It has only has 11 posts, but man, they blew my mind. I’ve read some gay fiction, but the ones I read partly intellectualized all the sex. This blog is just hunting for the sex, having the sex and then writing the sex. I honestly can’t imagine thinking about sex, sex, sex all the time. Or having that much sex (without even turning a profit.)

While I was there I also had an epiphany about a new kind of chandelier for gay bars. I was looking at a disco ball rotating gently above my head (this is how bored I get at clubs, which is why I’ve never really enjoyed clubbing) and the lights reflecting off it reminded me of chandeliers. Then I thought how great would it be to have a giant chandelier, but made from thousands of small rotating disco balls instead of the individual crystals.

God I was really bored at this club. I told the ex I was going to go soon, of course they didn’t have to come home with me.

The ex was drinking wine and was already a bottle in. Not good. Not good at all. I knew I needed to exit and fast unless I wanted another failed drunk management strategy on my hands.

The ex didn’t want me to leave right away, so I strategized and used sex as a lure.

It worked.

I’m not ashamed.

Failed Drunk Management Strategies

 

My Tipple Of Choice

The first time I ever saw someone completely trolleyed was at Ayan’s party in the Xth Std. It was also the first time someone served alcohol at a party (as far as I know). Leo and I both made a conscious decision not to drink at all at this party. (I know! Leo! Not drinking! Free booze too. I mean, It’s momentous! It’s astounding! I can barely believe it myself!!)

We stood on the side like a couple of old women watching various people whose behavior got progressively worse as the night wore on. There was a fat Sardaji slumped by a terrace wall, swinging around a half empty bottle, while shouting at the top of his lungs,

“MA, SHAKTI DE! MA, SHAKTI DE!!”

(Ma, give me strength!)

and Leo and I smugly thought,

“Tsk Tsk tsk. We will never behave like these rowdies…”

I’ve dealt with a few drunks over the years, Leo, the ex, the ex’s gay friend, my gay friend, randoms here and there. Although I’ve learned that there are bad drunks and there are good drunks, I’ve never been able to manage a drunk efficiently and entirely successfully. (Good drunk or bad drunk, sometimes management is required either way)

So as a means of self-analysis I’ve listed a few of my (failed) drunk management strategies…

Strategy 1: Placate Placate Placate

Say anything, say everything, just make sure you never say ‘No’.

Drunk says:

“I want to get a puppy. I will quit my job and live at home with the puppy.”

So instead of saying:

“You can’t afford to stay at home and a puppy is like a baby so you can’t just leave it at home alone while you go to work.”

You must say:

“Yes yes get a puppy, lets name it Chintu. We will both quit our jobs, I will also get a kitty, we can call her Posse.”

Sometimes this strategy fails me. I don’t know why exactly, but I suspect the drunk (like an animal sensing fear) knows deep down that my placating isn’t sincere enough or that my underlying anxiety remains (I have anxiety around drunk people, I feel they are too unbalanced and unpredictable and this makes me nervous). This can put the drunk into a rage. Knowing they are being pacified winds them up like nobody’s business.

“Don’t humor me! Don’t lie to me! You are lying to me. I can tell! Yes you are!”

And once paranoia sets it, it’s going to get rough. Fasten seat belts.

So my tip would be to approach this step like a Method Actor – Get inside the role. Be the role.

You are the drunk! You will get a puppy! You will never work again! Yay! It’s all possible!!

Strategy 2: Retaliate

Sometimes I get frustrated when Strategy 1. doesn’t work quickly enough. Instead of patiently waiting it out I get angry. Why is my evening ruined? Why am I the designated baby-sitter! What the fuck!

If the drunk is being especially belligerent I start to lose my temper – I try arguing or scolding them into sobering up.

Oh. My. God.

This has never worked. This strategy has been nothing short of total and utter disaster. Tears, crying, shouting, fighting, roaming around streets, the works.

Take it from me, never ever do this. Bad, bad strategy.

Strategy 3: Emotional Avoidance

Some drunks become very introspective once the high has peaked. Emotional. This is when it all starts going downhill. Do they have any friends? Their life is going nowhere, why is it like this? What is our relationship? Who are you? Why are you here? Etc. Etc.

I really dread, more than anything else, having an emotional conversation with a drunk person. You transmogrify into a washing machine – Things just go round and round. In the end, no one wins and everyone cries.

So this strategy was to try to avoid all confrontation. Just refuse to talk. Politely and calmly say,

“Look I don’t want to discuss this now. Let’s talk about it tomorrow morning. Please respect my feelings. I cannot discuss this now.”

This sounds reasonable no? Perfectly sensible?

No.

Fail.

Determined to stick to my guns on this issue and not get dragged into an emotional mire I kept repeating the above, but all it did was upset the poor drunk. Why wouldn’t I talk to them? Why was I being so mean? They just wanted to talk. Why was I ignoring them?

Then I felt like a horrible bitch. I felt horribly guilty and then horribly annoyed with myself.

Followed by guilt again. A guilt sandwich. Nice juicy guilt. Mmmm. So Catholic.

Then I partly caved, gave in and tried talking. I soon regretted it and tried to back a hasty retreat into silence.

Oi, it was a mess. Not a successful strategy.

Strategy 4: Self-Awareness

“Self-awareness is defined as the awareness that one exists as an individual being. Without self-awareness the self perceives and accepts the thoughts that are occurring to be who the self is. Self-awareness gives one the option or choice to choose thoughts being thought rather than simply thinking the thoughts that are stimulated from the accumulative events leading up to the circumstances of the moment.”

- Wikipedia. That great source of misinformation

Drinking is an exercise of self-awareness (unlike periods). I’m a pretty good drunk, I know when to stop and if I’m drunk I know I must keep my mouth shut and just go home.

Sometimes I try putting this theory into practice with other people. If the drunk is behaving irrationally or badly I will gently point out that there has been some drinking, perhaps their judgement has become clouded? Shall we discuss it tomorrow? Can they not see that?

No. They really can’t.

I had high hopes for this strategy but I forgot about the power of denial. The drunk will flatly refuse to admit it even if they reek of spirits, are slurring every second word and wobble about like a sailor on a rough sea – They’ve had a bit to drink, but they are definitely not drunk. They are not drunk. They are NOT drunk, OK???!!!! They are TOTALLY SOBER!!! FUCK YOU I AM TOTALLY SOBER!

My gently gently awakening of self-awareness strategy starts to crumble. I start interrogating. I do both roles of good cop and bad cop.

From

“It’s OK, I don’t care how much you’ve drunk. I just want to know that’s all. Just be honest with me. It doesn’t really matter either way.”

To

“How many have you had to drink?? Just answer me. No, it wasn’t two. Don’t lie to me! Yes you are I know it wasn’t two! Don’t lie to me! How many??”

“Can you walk in a straight line?? I bet you can’t! Show me then?!”

Once you get sucked into this role play there is no backing out. They will insist they are not drunk, you will not believe them. They will feel annoyed that you are dismissing their feelings, you will be annoyed that they are lying.

Also it’s not very nice to ask drunks to walk in a straight line. I feel bad I said that.

Major fail.

Strategy 5: Rational

Try acting like nothing is wrong. No one is drunk, everyone is sober, we are having a normal, rational conversation.

This doesn’t work. Of course it doesn’t work. I don’t know why I sometimes think it might.

1. The drunk thinks they are sober and rational regardless. See Strategy 4.
2. You cannot be rational with a drunk. You must placate. See puppy example in Strategy 1.

As A4 told me wisely..

“Don’t you know that when people come home drunk you do not offer them reason?”

Wise words.

I know it too, I feel like I lose my mind sometimes. I should just nod and say yes and shut my mouth. Lesson learned.

Strategy 6: Actual Avoidance

Unlike Strategy 3: Emotional Avoidance, this strategy physically requires you to remove yourself, thus also dramatically reducing the chances of any sort of ‘scene’ occurring.

Lock yourself in the Bathroom. Take a long shower.

Wait for drunk to calm down/fall asleep. Then go to bed.

All will be well in the morning.

It is a tad cowardly yes…

Strategy 7: Join the Enemy. Get Drunk.

You remember that helpful tip in Strategy 1. about Method Acting? Getting into the role, understanding the role?

This strategy is far easier if you can’t act. We can’t all be Christian Bale.

Get so badly hammered you can’t even stand. This has never failed me yet. I look so useless and faltoo when I’m drunk that it forces the other person to sober up and take care of me.

The tragedy is that I hate being drunk. Merry yes, drunk no.

In Conclusion:

I would say Strategy 1: Placate Placate Placate, in more capable hands than mine, is the keeper.

If you enjoy extensive cirrhosis of the liver then Strategy 7: Join the Enemy is the one for you.

Strategy 6: Actual Avoidance, is for those who might not.

Well that’s all folks, those are my 7 (failed) strategies. Hopefully they will help you avoid similar pitfalls should you come across them in the future.

I in turn, shall re-read this post and try to improve my drunk management techniques and be more sensitive to inebriated people.

Last Weeks Delayed Posts: Sunday

Left Hastings after lunch in a very odd hotel on Coombe Beach. The diners on average were generally over 80. The waiters on average were generally under 20 and all Polish. Trying to get our drink order right needed slight maneuvering and a lot of translation.

A very hefty polish woman ran off suddenly as Ashok was telling her something about what my great aunts would drink. The great aunts and co. hadn’t arrived yet as anyone eligible for a free bus pass had gone in one car that had got a bit fuddled and lost along the way.

The hefty woman came back equally abruptly with a pad and began to scribble stuff down furiously.

After watching Gordon Ramsay nearly all this month I feel I know a lot about cooking. Sure, I burn stuff, I set fire to woks, I eat from the microwave but still, I like to imagine that due to the wonder of TV I know a lot about cooking now.

The starter at this place in Bexhill, land of the aged, was a hollowed out melon with mango sorbet and strawberry sauce. Why in a hollowed melon?? Why? And why strawberry sauce? Why a pudding as a starter? I don’t get it.

I was fortunate enough not to order the melon. Duck pate with cranberry’s was my choice. It was a giant slab of duck pate and only 3 small round crackers. Ladling out the pate onto the crackers required military precision. At some point all the kids decided to swap starters and ladled out Cyrus’s chicken soup in 2 empty melon husks.

After that pseudo posh starter we then had to stand in a que like good school children for our mains, lining up behind a large table of pensioners. I mixed up all my sauces and meats just because I could. Beef with cranberry sauce, horseradish with carrots.

Took the early train back and Onnalin called to tell me to come to Gordon’s Wine bar near Charing Cross. Conveniently my train ended at Charing Cross so in part the decision was already made for me, encouraged as well, by a very relaxing yet rather dull weekend of mostly drinking hot chocolate, re-reading ‘The Secret Garden’ and arguing with the oldies about why gay adoption isn’t wrong.

Onnalin picked me up from Ch. X, looking very stylish but staring up in the air in a vaguely wasted way (and she was). We sat in Gordon’s ‘outside area’ designated for all the evil smokers to be cordoned off in (anti-smoking wankers. I hate them all, twats).

There were 3 other Thai girls and one Thai boy called Bier drinking wine only joking and talking in Thai. Kurt and I sat there like lemons, but smoking in a very cool and nonchalant manner as all smokers do.

Anna mentioned that since her boyfriend is trying to quit he’s come to realize that no non smoker has done any thing worthwhile or creative. Winston Churchill – smoker, Rolling Stones – smokers, Beatles – big time smokers, The Rat Pack – Smokers.

Then you look at Donny Osmond, he doesn’t smoke. Thats what I’d ask anyone who doesn’t smoke. Do you want to grow up like Donny Osmond? Well? Do you?? Even kids must have the question put to them: Children you never ever should want to grow up into an Osmond. Here have a fag. You’ll be a lot less cranky before bedtime.

Most of the conversation for the next hour was largely in Thai, with a lot of Thai slurring from Onnalin and Jha who kept saying “Cheers!” every 5 minutes and refilling everyones glasses. Jha had just come over from Thailand with Onnalin’s brother and didn’t drink much. So naturally, Onnalin started breaking her in promptly.

By the end on an hour and after only 3 glasses of wine, Jha had passed out in her chair looking quite content, woke up suddenly when the chair started to tip over, then was joyfully sick. We decided taking her to the Blues Bar would be useless and took a cab back to Brixton instead. Onnalin insisted we go to another bar, must against my will and wallet I was coerced into agreeing.

We finally get back to Brixton after Onnalin gives me a long speech on how she admires the surrealists so much because they all got wasted so much but produced so much work. All we do nowadays is get wasted and create nothing.

I begged to differ. I do plenty of things aside from being wasted.

Jha has to go home and be put to bed. We forget about the other bar and Kurt and I take a bus home once we find its closed.

I’d rather drink at home anyway. At least I can smoke. Fucking wanks.

Got home to find roses, lilies and a sunflower on my window sill and my room tidied, bed made, floor hoovered all by the ex, with a spare set of flat keys tied with a ribbon on my bed. I was surprised and pleased (esp. about the cleaning) and scared shitless simultaneously.

Being a true anti-social I decided to go online and hope someone to talk to would be there instead of having the balls to call anyone.

The ex who was hiding in Monty’s room came out of gingerly to face me and we had a nice talk finally. Kiss and made up etc. etc. you know the drill.

Sunday ended quite well for the most part.

Aside from the non smoking. Fucking wanks. I’m going to smoke more now just as a point of principle. It also gives me great consolation to think of all the parents who would have gone out to a pub to smoke are now forced to smoke at home, inflicting it on their troupe of shat out children (vile people)

So stick that in your ass government! Ha HAH!!

The Night After the Night Before

Hi everyone,
Hope all is well.
I just wanted to congratulate all of you on getting your MA’s.
Its been a real pleasure for me this year.
(awwww…………………He’s lying.)
I hope to see some of you at the degree ceremony.
(For a drink any excuse will do, even a graduation)
If I can be of any help to you in the future please just give me a call.

Kind regards
your friend
Foz

P.S can you clear your work and stuff from the studios as soon as you can.
(How mean. I don’t want to leave yet!)

Simeon says Foz must have a death wish by telling us we can call him. He’ll never get rid of us. Poor bastard.

This blog is bad enough but imagine everyone calling him when they’re drunk?

“Fooooooz!…..We loooove you! We do.. we do! We looooove yoooou.. Your the besht, just the besht and we jusht wanned to shay.. to say …to shay? no… we do we do yeah so…. ok bye”

Anyway I’m not calling, why can’t he call?

Nobody calls me *sniff sniff I’m so unloved* except Leo drunk and my parents sober.

Although Leo calling drunk is pretty much the same as the quote above. The only other function of my phone is to tell me the time (which is wrong in any case) and to wake me up.

I feel this sudden urge to drink until my liver catches up to Onnalin’s. I want to go to loud clubs with thumping bass and grinding gay boys and surly androgynous girls until every rational thought is wiped out from my brain.

I’ll be back to B.A. thinking shortly I’m sure.

My body can’t seem to recover from Friday night. Saturday I forced myself out of bed and into town for Charis birthday party, my liver, kidneys and lungs shrieking in rage at me.

Monty asked me if I’d been crying, my eyes were so bloodshot.

“NO!! I have not!!”

I indignantly respond.

“I’ve been drinking.”

I say proudly.

I feel more pain and loss in the end of my 2 yr romance with Catton street than anything else. If the M.A. was a relationship then at least I’ve been dumped with a distinction. Small consolation though, I feel very anti-climatic on the whole.

Charris’s birthday was fun aside from him insisting I take back one half of a present I bought for him (hugely insulting!) Mr. Habib drank 4 glasses of wine, got really drunk by 8 o clock and then fell over on his way to argue with a bouncer. The rest of us mostly drank orange juice aside from Lina who got very sleepy by 1:00 am.

Old age has well and truly set in for us Charis.

My left knee started to crack and click and ache while walking up the stairs to Kardo’s flat where we ate shwarmas, hummus and a really strange tabuleh purchased on Edgware Road.

Sadi accompanied by Charis dropped me home all the way from Ladbroke Grove to Brixton in his plush new car. He plans to deck it out with 10 speakers and a bluetooth stereo, he confesses (Sadi’s a boy who won’t be, can’t be satisfied with anything less than 10 speakers)

I wish we could have just kept driving all night listening to dance music. I was almost sorry to be home. Fell asleep as my head touched the pillow.

Friday Night: End of term boozing

Extended post: Foz & Dan both rebuked me on Monday for not posting about Friday night immediately. What shameless vanity, but since I clearly thrive on such egoism, I shall post as requested.

I’ve just got home

It is 6:30 in the morning

I’m fucking starving and just returned from Dan’s semi-drunken, mini-tour of South London via Clapham Common looking for a cafe open at this ungodly hour.

Am too wired and tired to type now need burger going to bed.

Later:

My entire knowledge of Clapham Common is that its largely full of rapists and murders. Dan cuts through a corner of the park and assures me protection. I’m fairly dubious of this offer.

We only saw the occasional passer-by and Dan suggests that everyone up at this time ought to have a sign that states exactly why the fuck they’ve been out so late. We suggest our signs would be ’Unsuccessful poof on the brink and les on the verge looking for burger’.

This was the climax of a very, very long day in the best possible way. We were taking the show down today, its our last official course day and the day we get the results. Excitement runs high.

The morning after Thursday night’s truly disturbing drunken-porno-rubbish discussed (it’s always either porn or poo: Our two staple favorites) the most hung over of us just look at each other and giggle sheepishly. Foz & Dan throw sporadic ‘screwing the bolts’ and ‘drilling’ puns at me all morning as Geoff wanders around in his usual fluffy way, clueless to all the in-jokes.

Foz and Dan finally having nothing left to hide came out of their respective closets and admitted they wanted to join the two pathways, illustration and photography by sealing it with the physical expression of their own mutual love. While they teased me about Geoff, I in turn spent all morning with visions of them as a gay couple in coitus firmly in mind. So the morning went by fairly quickly I’d say.

You see?? It’s the tutors that lead me astray. I was so clean minded before our tutors filled my fragile eggshell mind with junk.

Onnalin and Fernanda who never went home hadn’t changed clothes. Their outfits, which last night looked very glamorous, today look a tad (very) disheveled. I am told that Onnalin reeked of booze and at mid-day reports came back via Martyn that she had to throw-up in her handbag on the tube. Then carried her hand bag, puke and all, home with her. Reports state that she still hasn’t washed it.

We walk to Holborn from the Mall and then are smuggled in the back of empty van like illegal immigrants. Jet slams the door shut, dying to get a move on. There are no windows and we sit on the floor in the pitch dark. Foz immediately takes out his phone and plays with it (just so the screen lights up). He then goes off on one of his bi-monthly rants about Camberwell, hippies and wet-lettuces (I’ve never heard the phrase wet-lettuce before but I really like it with regards to hippies.)

The ex shows up out of the blue, leaning against a tree at some point during the day. Came to see the show. What show? Too late, no? I returned the equipment I borrowed. The ex left. I went back to the que of people loading the van (how English, if I was back in Mumbai we’d just be chucking boards in left and right like maniacs). Astrid with perfect slapstick timing whacked me on the back of the head with a large wall. Foz looking pleased, praised Astrid, remarking what a good person I was to hit in the head (true, very true).

At 4pm we head off to get our marks. I’ve avoided thinking about it all day and I oscillate between complete indifference to raging nerves. Anna and I make a pact to pretend we are totally satisfied with whatever we get (yeah right). Our repression skills are on top form.

The list up on the board is very complicated with no names, only ID numbers. I scan for mine, recheck it, check it again and am thrilled!!!! Yay!!! I generally hate opening the result letter cold, that horrible but exciting suspense like when Charlie opens a Wonka bar, but now emboldened by the notice board I eagerly wait in line outside the office.

There are various people with slightly longer faces around me but nearly 50% of the illustrators get distinctions (which lessens my joy but am I going to be picky? I think not)

The tutors return, no doubt anxious about the barrage of abuse they are expecting from those fundamentally dissatisfied with their marks. I don’t know if they did get any abuse but we finish unloading the last van, freshen up, hug people and drag the tutors, the long faced people and all us super cool illustrators off to the pub.

Sardhna came out for a minute while we were standing outside the Ivy to talk to Foz as he was once again cordoned off and isolated from the other pathways by the very possessive illustrators.

The entire group of 10 people around Foz stop talking and just look at her expectantly…..What does she want? Why is she here? Is she trying to take him away from us? Quick set the Mexican chihuahua on her! (The little chihuahua has been up 24 hours now, and is wilting quietly as she sits on the pavement drinking). Sardhna looks a bit startled at all the sudden semi-hostile interest in her.

By 11 Adam is so drunk that his eyes have lost focus and says some very lewd, rude things to me and others (and not in a good way). Martyn and Simeon sit on the pub sofa, have discussed gardening and then both go home.

The remainder are invited to continue the drinking at the typography tutor’s studio in Waterloo (yet again the ‘free beer’ lure is deployed and we’re only too eager to take the bait). Astrid asks, no insists we make Foz come as well (always with the girls, always. Lucky bastard). Dan ditches the photographers yet again for his little honey bunny snookie-wookums and we all weave our way to 2 cabs.

The minute we arrive there, the type tutor and his very rude flatmate/friend/twat throw us out again. There is no free beer to boot. Figures, from a fucking typographer. You can never trust a their idea of a party. Buzz kills. Who ends a party at midnight? Shocking.

But do we give up and go home?? Hell no.

Do we drink our livers silly?? Hell yes!

Why you ask? Because we’re art students that’s why!

We follow someone (either Dan or Foz) into a tiny small corridor of a bar which ‘accidentally’ turns out to be gay. ‘Accidentally’, of course.

Dan comes running back from the counter, his little face alight with excitement “Oh my god! I just got hit on!! This place is a gay bar! No it really is, he was a big Scottish guy with dreads and he was like man I’m staying in this awesome place you should come over and see my chandelier! and then this other guy was like can I ask you a question don’t get offended…. but are you gay? and I was like why would I be offended? and he said look around you, this is a gay bar!!”

Dan was scandalized. After all, he’s no tart. He wants romance, luurving, cuddles, you know.. the good stuff before he views a mans chandelier.

Other than that he was sooooooooo happy. Guys were groping his cute lil’ ass and rubbing his back all night. He kept disappearing to the loo as well….so suspicious that.

By the end of the night both he and Foz were running off to the loos simultaneously. The Firecracker thankfully isn’t there to see this. Sharing is not her strong point.

Anna and Uhr began a ludicrous drinking competition at the start of the evening, vowing to match each other drink for drink. Uhr is double Anna’s body weight and height, an unfair match it would seem. By 3 o clock both are drinking water. Uhr sits outside staring at the pavement for ages. We can safely assume that Anna was the winner since she was still smiling and semi functional. Slovenia is throughly shamed.

At 3:30am Uhr trolls in like an Eastern European Frankenstein and mutters “Foz Anna gone for walk to park”. The park is closed I say, its 3 in the morning. He says nothing, only blinks and lumbers back out again.

Slanderous gossip begins to be whispered among us. Georgina, Dan and I shake our wise old heads and tsk at this highly suspect behavior on their part. Dan is so hurt. How could Foz abandon him? Did everything Foz said in the committee meeting mean nothing?? Did he just use him for sex and then throw him away??

We call eventually and are told our ever professional, responsible tutor is throwing up somewhere along the Southbank with Anna, can we call back later?

Dan bursts into tears. If anyone had to hold back Foz’s hair as he threw up it should have been him not Anna! I had to comfort Dan as best I can. Foz loves you really I said. It’s just a one-off thing with Anna I said. He just needs to get it out of his system. He’ll come back to you, they always do I said. Your ass is just too cute to resist. Foz is a fool I added.

Dan thought of his bootilicious ass and stopped crying at once. An hour later A & F wander back in and are welcomed with open arms by all. Georgina looks mighty relieved.

I seemed to burn loads of things, my top, Dans jacket, the kitchen, my skirt, the carpet, Which is fitting since I am supposed to worship the god of fire. I really ought to stay away from anything flammable. Eoghan, being a Catholic, trades religious insults with me across the bar. I’m so taking him to hell with me when I go. Fire and Satan is on my side.

Dan & I being hardcore south Londoners, stick around in the bar long after the softies from Crouch End and Stoke Newington (the lesbian mecca) have wobbled off home. The bar finally kicks us out after some random woman insists shes seen me on TV. Dan tells her I’m on Eastenders.

We run to catch the train to Clapham Junction from Waterloo, sit in first class as Dan tries to get me to trade one of my drawings for one of his photography class’s catalogs.

What a cheap skate!

The Ivy on Thursday

Lecture by Simon Stern, the ‘master’ of copy right law, all day in the photography dungeon.

By about 4 o clock my eyes had glazed over and all attempts at concentration had flown out the door. Chris was doodling two faces in his note-book, Foz was doodling a naked woman with very hairy breasts (setting the standard). It was all very nostalgic, like being back in school again.

The lecture was excellent. Every time Mr. Stern dropped his cane he would yell loudly, “FUCK!” or “BUGGER!”. We finally finished at 4:30 and once Simon Stern was far away we all stand around admiring Foz’s scribbles of hairy breasts.

Yes it was a fine lecture, but I’m not going to talk about it. This post is entirely an excuse to gossip about the filthy things we were discussing in the pub.

We attend the Jigsaw photography mini exhibition in the dungeon. It wasn’t hugely impressive but free beer is a wonderful lure. The ‘artwork’ is largely ignored except by occasionally saying,

“Why the fuck did that one win?”

We are thrown out eventually and go to the Ivy to continue. Fer gives me a pill which combined with the beer makes me talk very fast for about 10 minutes but by the time we get tot the pub I’m feeling quite high and serene.

“Anna…”

I say,

“I’m feeling quite high.”

and Anna laughs at me.

Luckily in about 15 minutes all of this wears off and I’m relatively sober again.

Lord Foster Vader has finally seduced Dan (photography tutor) to the dark side. Dan has abandoned all his old photo buddies so that he can snuggle up next to Foz in the pub (so cute).

There is great strength in the power of the dark side (illustration). Young Dan has yet much to learn.

Some first years nearby try talking to Foz at some point and Fernanda is immediately green with jealousy that for one moment his attention is taken from us (her).

“Why are they talking to him! Its our year! We are graduating! I’m going to tell them…..”

“What do you mean no?? Don’t tell me no!! You are pissing me off! I’m telling them….”

“HEY YOU! THIS IS OUR TUTOR… HE’S OURS!! YOU CAN”T TALK TO HIM. HE’S OURS!”

“NO. NO! WE ARE GRADUATING UNTIL THEN YOU CANT TALK TO HIM OK?”

“NO. NO! DON’T YOU TALK TO HIM!!”

…all the while keep a vice like grip around his shoulders. He looked slightly bashful and embarrassed. He’s going to have to teach those first years in a few months and they won’t be too happy about all the previous territorial pissing around him.

Anna and Georgina and I giggle and try to pretend we don’t really know Fer, we just always happen to be seated on the same table. Purely coincidental. (Although, I secretly think its adorable the way she’s so possessive and passionate about Foz. That aside, she is fucking mental.)

Foz tries to escape Fernanda by jumping over the bench but knocks over a couple of glasses that shatter predictably. Everyone applauds. Foz blushes like a little girl.

Since the course is now over I have not the slightest care for any sense of restraint. I mentioned a passing thought that had occurred to me during a bored and sexually frustrated moment: I claimed (and still claim) that Geoff is so bumbling, so helpless, so completely loony that I’m convinced it’s a merely an elaborate facade masking the soul of a sexual dynamo.

Anna and Fernanda yell at me for such a blasphemy. Geoff?? No, no not Geoff! (Geoff is about 70 and bananas)

Anna says with her fingers pressing her temples,

“Janine I always thought you were mad but mostly made sense…I’ve lost all respect for you now…Geoff? Seriously not Geoff???”

“Noooooooo oh my god it’s just so sick, noooooooooooo you don’t underrrrrstand its sick! Tutors cant be sexual they are like gods! (tutors are gods?? and she calls me sick) It’s so wrong you are sick Janeeeeen oh mah god! Noooooo You don’t understand I’m going to need so much therapy what are you saying? Who’s going to pay for my therapy woman??“

This leads into everyone discussing their sexual fantasies and I’m sure once the pub staff threw us out and started to clear up 2-3 hours later, all our seats were rather moist. (ew)

Eoughan announces that his ultimate fantasy is Val throwing him down on the bed, having her wicked way with him (Val doesn’t like him at all so this makes it even better) as Geoff bangs away on the door saying “Please, please just let me in the office, Janine is right behind me!!”. Foz would be hiding under the bed taking notes while Dan moans in the next room “I can’t sleep… you guys are making so much noise…whine whine”

Hats off to Eoghan, that fantasy will be etched into my mind for all time. I’m certain his Catholic god will send him straight down to the fiery brimstone of hell for that.

Dan and Foz start telling us about how they stroke each other thighs during long, tedious course committee meetings. They’ve become lovers they say, Foz lounging on the bench in a macho, casual way while Dan gazes at him adoringly (it’s true, he really was).

This gay joke runs through our entire evening in the pub with Foz looking very smug about it (and his new toy boy acquisition). I must admit, there’s something I really enjoy about 2 straight men acting supremely gay. It’s just so naughty.

Fernanda will never again be able to think of the tutors in a wholesome, god like way ever again and neither will I.

The conversation really goes further downhill from here. Should I type any more of it I’m afraid that the keyboard and certain body parts might erupt in flames.

Wednesday Crit No. 1 & The Crown

So, at last we’re at the beginning of the end of our course. This is even more tragic than not winning £5000.

I don’t want to leave and deal with the shitty ol’ real world.

I’ve set my watch to an unknown amount of minutes fast so I arrived for class an hour early. In theory I planned on doing some drawing but I just drank hot chocolate and read the metro while simultaneously admiring Foz’s gay floral summer shirt.

A lady came to talk to us about publishing; the dos and don’ts, how she works, how others work etc. As an orator she wasn’t as quite gripping or entertaining as some others but provided some valuable tips and food for thought (PORTFOLIOS!!! I DON’T HAVE ONE SHIT SHIT SHIT) about the business of illustration.

Gary mentioned that he had read my blog on his trip to Florence and his wife scolded him because it was full of swearing and ranting about pregnant women (She has three kids. Three!)

The wife remarked loudly on the plane,

“What are you reading? What is all this ‘fuck off to another blog’??? Pregnant rant!?…”

“…Honey I’m just reading it …it’s not me…just a student…I didn’t write it….”

“…Well if you don’t like what I gave you then I’ll take them back!!”

I found this massively funny aside from it being slightly worrying that Gary is reading my blog when he’s on a romantic holiday with his missus.

I drew this thing over Easter which I’m finding very, very difficult to finish.

Purely because I loathe it so much. Well, loathe is a very strong word… its more like having a child you initially had great hopes for but who turned out to be slightly defective and a tad ugly.

No matter how much you coax it, yell at it, fiddle with it, you just cant fix the damn thing.

So I’ve given up on on the defected drawing and decided to concentrate on my more beautiful and clever children, who are of course my newer drawings. I penciled in 2 large ones yesterday and I now don’t feel like colouring them in. I love the remnant ruler lines and the softness of the pencil lines overlapping each other. I wish I could leave it like that but I know it’s just not enough. No impact.

Lets hope I don’t fuck them up like the last one.

Going back to the dislike of my defected child, Foz said my critique of it was…I forget the exact word he used, perhaps it was ‘stunted’ or ‘unclear’ or ‘pedestrian’ or ‘BA level’ (well it was one of those scathing type words), and it was stopping me from really seeing the work objectively. Of course he followed this by

“I think it could be really fantastic… but the parts that really concern me are this and this and this and this and that oh yes and this and that…”

Personally, the colours are really not doing it for me. Brown is a hateful colour. I use hate with all the vehemence I can currently muster and although what I’ve used is certainly not cheap paper, it hasn’t got the heavy weight lusciousness of the even more pricey stuff that I used earlier. The 2 pound a sheet stuff. Yum! It holds the colour so much better as opposed to it just sitting on the surface.

After a quick, painless and largely uneventful crit (no tears, no yelling, no nothing sheesh) we all traipsed off the The Crown, our second rate replacement for the Princess Louise. Second rate because it is further away, smaller, dingier and not as beautiful.

Foolishly we decided that it was so pleasant outside we could all sit together so much more conveniently. Pleasant of course quickly changed to freezing as hell.

We were all huddled on the large wooden tables under a big sun umbrella at 8 in the evening, shivering and rubbing our legs. My large art case turned into a lovely wind buffer.

For some reason Gary, Foz and that lady sat on one huge table by themselves and all 20 students crammed themselves onto 2 others nearby. I’m not sure what the reason of the segregation was. All us illustrators seem to be such socially awkward people.

As we walk back to Holborn tube some 4 hours later, Foz mysteriously disappears into a pub across the road from the Crown. Gary, Georgina, Anna and I stand outside waiting like dolts, smiling in that slightly awkward way, each of us probably trying to think of something to say to pass the time while Foz cheerfully takes a leak.

Fernanda and Foz seem to share the same bladder capacity (among other things), which is about the size of a small walnut.

I found it odd that he didn’t just go to the Crown (where for a large portion of the time Foz was running up and down to the loo anyway), but I suppose he thought he could tough it out. A mistake I have made more than once and almost wet the bus seat

(A very close almost)

Tragic News

Tragic news indeed.

Neither Martyn nor I won the Nationwide Mercury Prize this year.

Onnalin told me categorically if either of us won we would have to take her out to loads of cocktails at a posh bar. So when we didn’t she was supremely bitter. She spent the next half hour loudly cursing, swearing and generally abusing the winners piece.

While touched by her loyalty both Martyn, Ro and I decided it would be prudent if we removed Onnalin before either the winner or Sir Peter Blake (who was on the panel of judges) heard her.

So we went to the nearby pub where Onnalin accosted this paunchy middle-aged spectacled man called Phil and began for no reason a conversation about the benefits of eating silkworms.

Phil seemed enthralled and I’m uncertain if it was the actual conversation itself or just that Onnalin happens to be a very pretty girl.

Onnalin then invited him to come out with her and Martyn and extended an invite stay the night at hers.

Phil was wise enough to refuse and we all parted ways.

It occurred to me on the way home that I could have really used the 5 grand prize.

Everyone in London go see it:

The Nationwide Mercury Prize
The Hospital Gallery
24 Endell Street
Tube: Convent Garden