Bon voyage

Saw the Jew at Hoxton Kitchen whilst celebrating a friend's birthday. "Still drunk?" were the only words exchanged between us.

Bold face names

Spent the day at home in a pair of old jeans and a zip up hoodie, instant messaging with a drum and bass DJ who performs in full face paint and a tuxedo. We met under the tenuous pretence of Joanna travelling with his unanimously loathed brother for a short period in India. We traded notes on the comparative values of two- and four-ply cashmere and discussed our weekend plans (pancakes for me, high-paying party for him) and for the afternoon, I lived vicariously through the successes of a 6'3" Shoreditch turntablist who smacks remarkably of the singer Meat Loaf.

Cancelled my credit cards following the robbery. Jo reported our stolen goods on my behalf. The two policemen at the station were comparing pictures of themselves on Facebook when she arrived and it reminded me of hiding out in the back of the art gallery at home when my coworker and I would while away our shifts on social networking sites and YouTube.

In reviewing my summary of the worst night of my life, I regret to note an omission in the evening's description. While I originally began the evening with posh Tim and his Swedish girlfriend, I forgot to mention his ever-present and ambiguous associate, a leery Indian friend who had traded his lace-up flared capris from the Cavalli party for a lovely pair of stonewashed high-waisted flared jeans and a red raw silk henley. Also, that evening I threw up in a stranger's hat in the VIP room while Will I Am of the Black Eyed Peas looked on.

Watch where you wake up

To sum:

I abandoned my visiting friend from home to attend the West End bon voyage of the flannel-wearing Jew with the Audio Bullys booked on the decks.

I wore a black American Apparel dress with black tights and structural heels, a pair of plimsolls and a toothbrush in my bag and high hopes hammering on my heart.

I arrived to find the Swedish model wracked with news of posh Tim's recent indiscretions, my crush wearing a denim shirt and an unknown girl as an accessory, and magnums of Grey Goose in the VIP.

I left after several unaccounted hours of distress and drunkenness, stumbling into Oxford Circus with nothing but my leather jacket, having been robbed of mine and Joanna's wallets, my keys, bus pass, cell phone, camera, mp3 player, Double Mint and any sense of security I had grasped at over the previous month.

Eventually I found myself several kilometres away, denying sleep in a corner of an ill-reputed neighbourhood whilst awaiting sunrise and sobriety. Jumped the barrier at the Underground station as soon as it opened and hitched a ride into W12 to wait on my front steps for three hours until someone awoke to let me in.

By noon, I swore never to drink Grey Goose again and cried into my cocoa until I fell asleep until late the next day.

Proverbs 16:18

... and with pride cometh the fall ...

It's in the stars

I've always been down with astrology but I never found newspaper horoscopes accurate until I moved to the UK. They are freakily on-target here and especially astute when Joanna and I read them together. We share a star sign and get horoscopes like "Someone close to you is getting on your nerves but you need to support them through a difficult transition period" and so on and we don't know anyone here but one another so the "someone close to you" is always the other.

On Monday, Jo and I went to a (real) estate agency to look at [flats] in East London and fell in love with the fourth one we saw as we were chauffered by the agent, all stress free and enthusiastic about our exodus to E1. As we drove along Brick Lane Jo's eyes lit up at the curry houses, the grafitti, the bicycles and ridiculous shoes and I said "I told you you'd love it here" and she said "I told you we'd be fine if we had an agent drive us around and show us exactly where we want to live" and our horoscope said "Avoid telling someone close to you 'I told you so' because really it doesn't need to be said."

I picked up a quality magazine from the newsagent's on Thursday - Real People ("100% Real Life! Packed with puzzles! 65p!") - which boasts such Real Confessions as "I ate my school friend's dinner while she was in agony with a broken ankle!" and Jenny Blume's Weekly column "Your Stars." According to Jenny,

"High spirits could see you hitting the dance floor, but watch those delicate feet of yours. Say no to heels!" and "A night out with friends could leave you on a high, but you'll need to watch out where you wake up!"

Just in time, as Friday night is the Jew's going away party in the West End. We've been texting for the past few weeks and I saw him a while ago in Hoxton all 6'2" and steezy with Morrisey hair - basically my British ideal. He's leaving for a trip around the world this summer, India to America, and I won't see him until September. It's probably for the best as I really need to focus instead of skulking around at work with my cell phone when I'm on shop floor.

The model scout and posh Tim and his Swedish girlfriend will be there as well, and suddenly London doesn't feel so huge after all.

Party pixx

Sick week that I can't even do justice to. So much has happened, and it makes coming to London worthwhile. It's been difficult arriving with only Joanna in my address book, but I've managed to make friends and make my way around the city.

I wound up at a Vice party at the Proud Galleries in Camden - a converted stable with rough stone floors and the ghost of hay bales in the air - with some guys who work for their bar, the Old Blue Last, in East London. They recognized me from some of Scott's pictures (lol) at The End and we're talking about doing a night there in a few months.

On Saturday, I worked the door at a warehouse party (...) in Elephant & Castle for extra cash and drink tickets and hung out with some sweet photographers and our Canadian 'family' in between guestlist and the handmade fresh fruit cocktails.

We met up last week for the surreal late night video installation at Tate Britain. Watching silhouttes of camels climbing the frames of some of the world's most famous oil paintings while light and sound shows overwhelm entire gallery halls as we drink glasses of champagne in our t-shirt dresses and high-saturation tights made a memorable evening with a group of girls who came highly recommended by our friends back home.

Aside from that, I've been spending more and more time in East London and I feel really happy there. The people are fresh and creative and ambitious and young, everyone in slims and flannels and vintage shoes.

The night before the Midnight Juggernauts show, I went to Hoxton Kitchen to meet up with the Jew and ended up at an after-hours with the DJs talking about bloggable music instead. They actually play the sort of music I want to hear (albeit with stacks of vinyl and a turntablist's timing - aka beat matching, period) and there are a ton of shows coming up that I can't wait to check out.

For example, next month is the Stag & Dagger festival in Shoreditch, a kind of club crawl where you get a wristband that lets you in to about twenty venues around the area for a year's worth of shows in one night. The line up is retarded: A Trak, Atlas Sound, Bumblebeez, Das Pop, Diplo, DJ Falcon, Drums of Death, Hot Chip, Little Boots, Lost in Paris, Muscles and SebastiAn just start the list. I can't even imagine how the night will play out!

Music post

This is the perfect gift for those friends who ask others to fill up their new iPod because they don't have any music on their computer.

COOL KIDS CAN'T DIE EXCLUSIVE MIX

1. Kylie Minogue - Wow (MSTRKRFT remix)
2. Electro Vamp - I Don’t Like The Vibe In The VIP (JACK ROKKA dirty dub remix)
3. Daft Punk - Around The World (VILLAINS more cowbells dj edit)
4. The Presets - My People (D.I.M. remix)
5. CONGOROCK - Exodus
6. YUKSEK - Kontraul
7. Justice - DVNO (LA RIOTS remix)
8. Chemical Brothers - The Salmon Dance (CROOKERS wow edition)
9. The Teenagers - Love No (TEPR remix)

http://www.diedlastnight.com/blog/archives/215

LOL

Black on black

I had the afternoon off so I met up with the model scout from the masquerade under the giant bronze Freddie Mercury at the Dominon Theatre. The last time I saw him, he was drinking a triple-thick strawberry milkshake in Oxford Circus to prepare for the night of orange juice and vodka table service at Maddox and Movida. While everyone else is making themselves look important, we'll lurk in a corner talking about art and other people's outfits. He wears a leather jacket, an alias and a diamond in his tooth and I have the best time when I'm out with him.

Today we stopped by Hannah Marshall's A/W 2008 preview in Soho for some free drinks, a passing canape and a gift bag filled with USB-port accessories and Vitamin Water.





Black is the new black, it seems, a few brass knuckles paired with a leather-accented lace dress and some inappropriate shoes. I appreciate anyone who justifies my lust for black dresses and irreverant accessories. The crow feather headdresses are unbelievable and I think Robert Louis Stevenson will be my ultimate inspiration for autumn.

Following Soho, we hopped to some boutique openings, an underground record store and an art show in Hackney. I wasn't really feeling the large-scale guitar frets in the middle of enlarged b/w prints of houses but I had a great time at the Bistroteque afterparty. I spent the evening with the model scout, a hairstylist for V magazine and an installation artist with whom I spent an hour discussing modern mythology under the bar's oversized chandeliers and sombre colour scheme.

I ended the night at a party in Old Street at a designer's showroom with the model scout and a gang of Alexander McQueens, the most awe-inspiring and intimidating type of women in London. They dress in skintight structural black with bondage boots and spiky airs, and while some bottles of red wine and Edith Piaf will loosen them up, their burgundy-red lips and blunt black bangs keep me riveted from afar.

Maddox, Movida, Mexico

Work began at 10am, but I arrived at 830am, thinking that I was due at 9. To pass the time, I breakfasted on my New York Dolls coworker's McVities and made a Folgers Instant in the back room with some hot water and fresh milk. I've noticed that the labels always list "fresh milk" and I'm not sure what to make of it. If they have to advertise that a refrigerated dairy product is "fresh" then what are they compensating for?

An unwashed strawberry blond came in wearing an ancient parka and some filthy runners. I'm not used to seeing honest disparity after a month in Notting Hill. He was really hyped on the Del Tha Funkee Homosapien playing overhead and complimented us on our taste in music the way diners give their compliments to the chef. None of us remembered putting Del in the sound system, so we gave credit to my skinniest colleague, the one who wears jeans rolled up with a turtleneck tucked in and who was propositioned by a high ranking member of British parliament at an early age.

Filthy went on to explain how under appreciated Del is, except in LA which is a great city. One of the best he's ever seen in America or anywhere, and he's seen a few cities. I asked him when he planned to return and he didn't know. He's not welcome in the country because he was arrested for "looking like a guy with a criminal record who also happened to have my name. It didn't help that I had drugs on me at the time." He said he might sneak back in after a year's time, when he'd settled on a new identity. I must have had an incredulous look on my face and he explained that his friend had a similar problem being deported from Australia for ketamine trafficking. He changed his name and got a new bank account and passport and returned a year later as Andrew-Mark On-Ket. Clever.

I should have held my tongue when I joked about finding him a good spot along the river to cross from Mexico.


Coffee and orange juice for lunch. I met with one of the West End's busier promoters to hear his plans for a night sponsored by ... a chocolate manufacturer and a CGI programming firm. We'd scheduled and rescheduled this coffee for weeks and he had a choice of cappuccino and fresh squeezed laid out when I arrived. My coworkers always come back from lunch with stories of starters, mains and puddings, and they were yet again unimpressed with my culinary selections.

A samoyed sat nearby with a pram and an unattentive Notting Hill nanny. I don't really care for dogs but this one was essentially a giant white smiling cat, and I eyed it from a distance because I miss my pets.

Scrambled egg for dinner. Jo cooked, as usual, and I ran upstairs to fix my hair. On the way home I picked up a dress for the last-minute masquerade party in the West End that I had no mask for. I'd been eyeing a yellow silk strapless for a week, planning on picking it up for just such an occassion and somehow walked out with a black knife pleated halter frock cut to the knee. I think I justified a simple dress as a mask would overwhelm a stronger outfit. Anyhow, I haven't worn a dress that long since 2003 and I left it in a pile for the silk strapless aubergine that I'd worn to a cocktail club a few weeks before, still fiending for the jaundiced minidress in the shop window.

I hopped the bus into town in my glamourous kit with time to spare as I still hadn't acquired a mask and I had visions of cobbling something together with found items at the grocery store. An unctuous acquaintance who seems to sprint in West End circles agreed to bring a spare. He purchased it in Norfolk during his senior year for a Venician-themed party, which he regretably could not attend as his online erotica empire was busted by Scotland Yard the night before, and his parents grounded him for the weekend.

Coincidence and some well-timed text messages intervened at Regent and Argyll with the promoter, his girlfriend, a Columbian coffee trader and a model scout. We entered through the side door of some exclusive, unmarked members-only and descended into a lounge that can only be described as first class on an overnight Virgin Atlantic flight from New York to London. All light boxes and white leather and glowing strips of purple and orange along what would have been the skirting boards if places like this ever used non-synthetic materials.

My mask arrived and after conversation about vacationing in Monaco and Spain, we took our coats and took to the balmy streets of Mayfair. The great thing about London that everyone tells me and that I fully accept is that every district is a village of its own and you can walk from one place to the next like its a giant food court and you've decided that you're going to have both the Mexi fries and the A&W Teen burger for lunch. In the West End, all with some well-heeled friends, well-heeled shoes and a ladies' cigarette if you're smoking, the jetlagged-tourist-on-the-town look can be easily avoided.

Soon enough we were tucked into another white leather banquette with a glowing light box laid out with Moet & Chandon, watching a fashion show lit by "nouveau baroque" chandeliers and Kliegs. Posh Tim's latest girlfriend, a darling Swedish model, arrived in jeans, t-shirt and toque when everyone else was in fancy dress. While he and I seldom speak outside of night's out, I regularly trade numbers with his dates.

Finally, tired and hungry, I shared a black cab back to Notting Hill. I picked up a £2.50 kebab, said yes to all the toppings and scarfed it down on the way home, where I wearily wriggled out of my tiny dress and stepped into some Cowichan knits and a sense of normality. Beautiful.

Durrr

Hit up the Midnight Juggernauts show with Jo at The End after an evening drinking under the train bridge in W12. The bassist was totally checking her out.

Roberto Cavalli

Have already settled into a short-term flat outside Notting Hill with a weekly maid and two floors of high ceilings, wide windows and skylights. Turned down a job at a club in Camden as the owner admitted that he wanted to kill himself during the interview, and took a retail job in Portobello instead. Drank at one of Prince Harry's favoured clubs and attended a party in Mayfair hosted by Roberto Cavalli, who poured my champagne as I beamed in my Johnson Street shoes and dress.

Celebrity sightings abound (Liam Gallagher, Kelly Rowland, Nigel Barker, Nole Marin, the Geldoff girls, Agyness Deyn, Sienna Miller and Spandeau Ballet so far) and I finally found a Jewish-looking AA hoodie and leather jacket in the crowds at Movida, the red carpet and paparazzi-covered club that we've been invited to more often than we understand.

I don't want to admit that I'm overwhelmed by all that has happened in the two weeks that we've been in town. It all began on our third night in London when I'd slept off my jetlag and wanted to see the city. I had heard of Yo Yo at the Notting Hill Arts Club, so Jo and I dolled up and set out, only to be intercepted by a posh boy named Tim inviting us to a party. When we arrived, we found our hostess was the daughter of a lord and lady, the guests all drove Ducatis and there were designer shoes and chocolates everywhere. Since then, our Knightsbridge catalyst has brought us everywhere and introduced us to everyone who can help us start our lives here.

I remember telling Jo (the novice celebrity gossip fiend) not to worry; I'd find us some glamourous adventures during our four months in London. It seems it's already begun!