Like I said in my last post. I should really sort this thing out into some sort of chronological order. But I can't be bothered, nor am I ever in a logical mood.
Plus, I know the man sat next to me on the train is reading what I am writing.
I am listening to the new Forward Russia album. Can’t say I was a massive fan of their 1st album. But this one is MASSIVE. Just thought I’d throw that one out there.
God, I can’t remember what I’ve been up to this week. Maybe if I work backwards from now, It might make some sort of sense.
Right, I mentioned the DJing and the weird Hot Chip party that we never made it to in my last post. That was Saturday. Right, Friday. Was that when I went to the Natural History Museum on my own? I think it was actually.
I’ll start there.
I woke up on Friday morning. I felt pretty lousy after the NME awards and decided that I needed some culture to stop my mind from turning into a lump of pork sausages. I needed to stare at some paintings and pretend that they moved me. After failing to recruit anyone to join me on my cultural festivities, I set off for The Natural History Museum, via Liverpool St station, on my own.
I boarded the circle line (the yellow one) and began reading my book. I was sat next to a really fat businessman who kept reading the poems in my book. These poems are particularly vulgar and he kept tutting and signing. I was so close telling him to fuck off. But thought it very impolite. So I didn’t and let him carry on reading my crude poems over my shoulder. Then I started thinking that if you’re going to fall asleep on the tube, the circle line is definitely the one to do it on. Rather than the Victoria Line, I mean, who wants to end up in Brixton.
Which leads me on nicely to my night of fun, which involved Hot Chip again.
Victoria and I, being the socialites and well connected beings that we are, got some guest list for Hot Chip’s gig at Brixton Academy.
That place is huge. And it was absolutely rammed to the walls. Gigs like that put me in a really bad mood. I think it’s mainly because I’m too impatient and I hate having to queue for the bar/toilet/cash machine/anything.
I knocked into this bloke as I was moodily pushing by the riff raff at the bar, I didn’t apologise. I wish I had done.
Bad mood aside, Vic and I headed up to the balcony and from there we viewed the gig in all it’s brass band induced glory.
As of late, I’ve been very complementary about London’s transport. But the journey home from Brixton at 2.30 in the AM was like a head trauma. But like most things, I was faced with the question: Would I rather spend 90p or £20 getting home….? Just like I face the question most mornings: Do I spend an extra 10minutes in bed, or get breakfast/have a shower?
Judging by the state of my appearance most days, you can guess which wins.
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