Girls Night Out: Cuttin' the Rug

We returned to our world, which, as it turns out, was Bar Solona. Right where we had started. The time that had passed had cleared the dance floor of diners and their dinner tables. Coats and scarves and excess baggage were trustfully thrown into a corner. CBFand I cut through the crowd and ordered ourselves Drink 8. A self-financed mojito does wonders for a girl's spirits.

Spanish to the left of me. Spanish to the right of me. Spanish in front of me and in back of me.

Ole!

Before I know it, CBF and I are engaged on the dance floor. A Colombian man flings me out and twirls me in like he's walking the dog with a yo-yo. On the in-twirl he asks me a question in faltering English. When I respond in drunken, slurred Spanish, he looks relieved.

Blahblahblahablahblahblahblah blah blah blah si de acuerdo te quiero mucho mi amor?

I did a lot of smiling and nodding.

He did a lot of hand grabbing and twirling.

CBF and I caught up at the bar.

"I don't know what he's saying to me!"

"Me either. It doesn't matter! But check it out ... I'm dancing with Legolas' fucked up little brother!"

My salsa-loving dance floor partner had long straight hair like Legolas and Disneyesque Dumbo ears behind which his hair was tucked.

"You are! Shit! You are! But check it out: I'm chatting up Pablo!"

Holy fuck. She's chatting up Pablo! What the fuck is he doing in London anyway?

And I think back to Pablo who broke our hearts with lies about attending school and doing well on exams when really he was checking out the Brixton gigs. The little fucker was supposed to be getting his Spanish high school diploma - random in London, I know.

CBF focused in on this Pablo look alike. Other than his height, he was a spitting image. We took him under our wings as if he were our kid brother. He probably thought he was going to score. His name, he claimed, was Alex. CBF and I told him that we were going to call him Pablo whether he liked it or not. He shrugged his shoulders and put up no more fuss. He seemed happy to be a Pablo instead of an Alex as long as we danced with him.

Girls Night Out: Clubbin' It

This is the elegant footwear I wore on the biggest night of the year. The rest of my "outfit" matched the shoes: effortless, casual, grunge.

So far, it didn't much matter.

West End musicals cater to all sorts of satorial tastes. Ditto for pubs. Ditto for the jiving, throbbing, body-pressing, basement club where CBF and I knew we would eventually end up cutting the rug.

We wound through the streets of Covent Garden, Leicester Square, China town. Tittering excitement percolated up through our speech and giggles and light beginnings of a buzz brought on by Drinks 1, 2 & 3. Oblivious to the familiar lights of the West End: red, green, blue neon punctuated by the shadows of pedestrians, the headlights of passing cars, the yellow vacancy signs of the black cabs, we skipped through the nocturnal beehive. Moving from nectar to nectar, queen bees, killer bees, honeybees, drones, all on their way to pounding headaches. We were about 10 blissful hours in front of our inevitable hangover.

Down into the basement, we realised, despite best efforts, we were still too early. Tables ...

for diners? Do people actually eat here?

littered the dancefloor.

Onward we went, to muscle up to the bar to wait for the clearing of the boogiewoogieing space, to order Mojitos.

While we waited for the attention of the bartender, CBF attended to her dry lips with one of those standard aluminium mini-pots of vaseline intensive care petroleum jelly. Cue: Enter single Asian/Indian guy.

"This is going to sound gay, but could I borrow some of that? My lips are really dry."

With the flash of a credit card, Single Asian/Indian guy made appear 3 other Asian/Indian guys and 6 mojitos, Drink 4.

Single Asian guy was aloof, yet hovered. In the same way his expensive shirt was casually ruffled, he treated CBF and I with an interest that had the slightest odour of groomed disdain. Maybe it was Lynx.

Another round of mojitos, Drink 5 and someone asked about the ring on my finger.

"Yep, I'm married. It's a girls night out."

That's that. Attention will now go some other way.

But it didn't. Of the Single Asian guy's three Asian guy friends, 1 was married, and 2 were flagrantly on the prowl. Single Asian guy flashed his card and produced 6 flutes of champagne.

"To my friend here! His wife is pregnant. He's going to be a father! Now, down!"

They all turned the flutes upside down and into their mouths; even CBF, which really didn't surprise me because she can hold her drink. She's like some kind of Eastern European hot chick who can drink the biggest man in the room under the table. I am not. I looked aghast at the vision of all that carbonation going down those throats with such speed.

Now they'll need to burp.

They allowed me to sip my champagne, Drink 6, like a lady -- even if dressed for Nirvana.

"This place sucks. We only came because the big guy there," there's a nod in the direction of the father to be "convinced us to come."

My arguments in favour of the place fell on deaf ears. The tables were still on the dance floor. There wasn't even the opportunity to convince them through dance.

"Let's get out of here. We're going to take off. He's a member of this place. Do you want to come?"

It felt early. We could always leave. CBF and looked at each other and agreed, why not?

I harboured 1 small seed of reservation: the name of the place, our destination: Movida -- a name that promised flash, and overpriced drinks, and bland radio music, and all those look-at-me, look-at-me, look-at-me falsely beautiful people.

People tell me I'm pretty. Some guys tell me I'm hot -- though they're inevitably trying to get laid. Sometimes I see it: I can be beautiful. Generally, I'm cute ish. CBF, she is gorgeous. Both of us are minimal (if not none) make-up girls . I strongly suspected that Movida would be like outerspace to the oxygen sucking types that CBF and I are.

It didn't matter yet. We had to get there.

Asian boys didn't want to walk. From Soho to Oxford Circus. Maybe they weren't wearing comfortable shoes.

A dispute among the 4. Taxi or walk or bicycle rickshaw??!!

CBF and I shrugged off any opinion. Left to our own devices, we would have walked, but we were mere novelties, along for the ride.

Rickshaw won out, and I found myself squeezed in tight between married Asian guy (father to be) and the dry-lipped, credit card flashing, quarter-disdainful Indian. I wondered what CBF might be talking about with her Asian rickshaw comrades. Mine were telling jokes. And demanding that I tell them one in return.

"What do you call a cow that's had an abortion?"

Somehow our commute to Movida became a race between the two rickshaw lads. Sweat pored down my rickshaw cyclist's neck. He led the charge, but CBF's approached from behind.

Drinks 5 and 6 must have been kicking in because I heard myself egging on our cyclist, "Vamos, vamos, Pablo! Van a ganar." I'm embarrassed by the memory of my enthusiasm for the rickshaw race, but Pablo and his comrade seemed to enjoy the challenge. They laughed and flirted with CBF and me when the dropped us off; the Indian/Asian guys waited at the velvet barrier at Movida.

Truth is, those rickshaw guys were more our type. Down to earth.

Meanwhile, another flash and currency exchanged hands. I heard something about £30 a head. I make good money, but 30 quid a head to get into a bar doesn't sit well with me. Keen to demonstrate independence and reciprocity, I insisted on buying the next round of drinks. £15 each for Drink 7, Gray Goose Martinis.

As I had suspected I would, I wheezed to get oxygen in my lungs. Space aliens twirled around me in high heeled silver shoes, spiked toeless strappy things, streaks of rouge, ironed hair.

CBF found me in the ladies' room.

"Let's get out of here."

"Absolutely."

We forgot our manners and snuck as quickly as we could back to our world.

Addendum - 19 December
This morning when I woke up my computer was still on. I swished my fingers over the touchpad to get rid of the screensaver. I hit Ctrl R to refresh the screen, and BAM three whole comments. I was in a rush to take Dog on her walk. The comments would have to wait. Throughout the walk, I thought about what could have prompted those comments. Someone once told me I am paranoid. I think there is some truth to that statement. Throughout the walk, I became convinced that my post had incited race-related ....

dare I say: racist? Does "racist" not mean 'race-related' in the truest sense of the word?

sensibilities?

I thought to myself, "Is there a racist undertone to my description of the Asian/Indian guys? What does it matter what race they were? Did it add anything to the anecdote? Why did you include it? Was it unconscious racism?"

I don't think I depicted the Asian/Indian guys in a negative light -- other than the fact that their taste in establishments did not jive with mine -- but that has nothing to do with their race, just their character.

So why explicitly state their race?

Is it because London is full of these Asians (Indians and Pakistanis), and so it's just a part of the fabric of life that I was trying to describe? Or was I just trying to complete a visual picture? And if so, why not use descriptions of the beautiful brown skin the generally characterises 'those' peoples: honey, caramel?

What would an Indian or Pakistani think reading this post? Would they be offended?

If so, I am truly, truly sorry.

Girls Night Out: Pubbin' It

Prior to our disappointment in the West End musical offering that evening, CBF and I had breathlessly conspired to have a night of it*-- you'll remember that on the bus into town, we were belting out show tunes beneath our breath, which tends to leave a girl (or a couple of girls) breathless.

"We can go out!"
"Yes, we'll go out!"
"If I were a rich man ..."
"'til the wee hours of the morning!"
"Until tomorrow!"
"Yes!"
"Yes!"
"Tradition!"
"Come what may ..."
"We'll go out!"

We couldn't go out on disappointment alone, so after the show we had to dine. We readied our stomachs for unhealthy amounts of alcohol with noodles and broth supplied by the Covent Garden location of Wag yo momma.

From the recesses of my brain I recalled a blog telling me how to connive a free meal from one's local wagging momma locale. Was it you, OE, who told of a magic number that provides sustenance at no cost? My memory being what it is, I did not recall the magic number. Being a good friend of myself and knowing myself quite well, I'm sure that even if I did have a more loyal memory, I would not have used the magic number. I am a coward at heart. It's something I live by.

Over the past 6 years, I have frequented a number of wagging mommas, and for the first time in all that time I noticed a little four letter word in the description of their chicken noodle soup: p-o-r-k. I had to wonder if the wagging mommas had had wagging fingers wagged their way and were thus forced to modify their menu in order to accurately and completely describe the contents of the chicken soup ...

Or did they just change the recipe?

It was here** where CBFand I started the night. Along with our noodles, we each ordered Drink 1, a Kirin.

Upon completion of our meal, we faced our first real quandary: we knew where we wanted to end up, but we were at a loss for what to do in the meantime. Even a couple of geeks know that 21:30 is far too early to show up almost anywhere.

Except for a pub!

Thank God for the pubs! Or the Queen! And the Queen! Thank God and the Queen for the pubs!

But,

Damn the rugby! God damn the rugby! I'm sure the Queen doesn't watch the rugby!

Thanks to the rugby, most pubs were off limits. Pub after pub (at least those with televisions) were not only packed, but overflowing as rugby aficionados watched their teams win or lose from the street and through the windows of those packed pubs with televisions.

CBF and I found a televisionless pub. We even found a table at which to sit and chat and wonder aloud on the disappointment that was the musical of that night.

I bought Drink 2: a round of wife-beaters***.

CBF and I mused about our lives, about living in this city, about our impressions of the city before our lives became here, before we knew that the Smoke was anything but always unpleasant and thank god they've banned it from the bars and I've given it up and when I was in university in another capital city there was a pub called the Charring Cross and in my mind it was so very London but I didn't know the Charring Cross was a train station or a tube stop or a street famous for its book shops.

I tell CBF about this pub, and she listens. She really listens. This is one of the incredible things about CBF: she seems to take sincere interest in the most mundane of my stories. Her capacity for listening is unmatched.

She gets Drink 3: a subsequent round of wife-beaters.

Whatever pub it was, it was good. No TV. No flat carpet with dark red background and dark green or blue curly qs or yellow shields -- a carpet somehow but inexplicably reminiscent of mildew -- none of those. It was a good pub, wooden, solid, warm, a place to hold our attention for the minimum amount of time before it was time to head on.

*Because I'm an honest sort, I must admit that I warned My Man of our possible conspiring before CBF and I had even started the conspiracy so the spontaneity at which I hint was not entirely as it may have appeared, that is, spontaneous.
**Covent Garden branch of the Wagamamas.
***My Man is glad he's no wife.

Girls Night Out: High Brow Culture

We had had such good luck with our previous musical experience, CBF and I decided to give it another go. On the bus into town and knowing almost-nothing about Avenue Q, we satisfied our enthusiasm for songs and singing and almost-melodyandharmony by whispered mutttersinging songs we knew.

CBF to me: "Matchmaker, matchmaker, make me a match, catch me catch, find me a find .... make him hot and virule and it wouldn't be so bad if he were ...."

Me to CBF: "Rich! If I were a rich man ... da de da de da de da da da de da da da ... I'd sing all day and the My Man would divorce me 7 hours every day ..."

Excitement and anticipation quelling whatever misgivings we would normally have had at making utter twats of ourselves on the bus.

My almost-nothing knowledge of Avenue Q included the knowing that Avenue Q is loosely based on Sesame street (I had failed to think of the possible meaningless of that cultural association for the Czech CBF), a gay colleague had given it an unequivocal thumbs-up -- and I have the utmost respect for the opinion of "the gays" when it comes to musical ouevres. All in all, word had been good; expectations were high.

And as is often the case when expectations are high, disappointment followed.

Avenue Q is a GREAT idea poorly executed.

Touted as intelligent puppet irreverence.

Fucking puppets, gay puppets, Gary Coleman living just above squalor.

But where was the intelligence? We laughed sincerely when the puppets were fucking. That was funny. Sophomoric.

The songs ... I can't give you any examples because the were utterly forgettable.

Blah songs, blah irreverence, gay guy's opinion spot off.

At the very least, we were in the centre of the Smoke. Well positioned for a girls night out.