Dear George,
Well happy new year to you my friend! Now i know this is a few days late, but after new years even i have had a hang over that won't leave. Today is the January 4th 2012, it is a chilly 7*C outside, i've not yet left for work so can't comment on the lateness of the train but i can say that fares have gone up above the rate of inflation and naturally no one is happy about this…i'll make a note of how much extra i'll be paying so you can share my outrage. First class stamps, however, remain 46p.
Let's put the fury of public transport behind us for now and crack on with the important issue of what i got up to New Years Eve...
In my wisdom i decided to go out in London for NYE, not to see the fireworks, that would be madness! I had somehow managed to get my hands on a couple of VIP tickets to a Willy Wonker themed club night at a swanky bar. The thought behind this was instead of getting caught up in the fireworks' crowd i would party until the wee hours of the morning, thus avoid the chaos of getting taxis, thus having a relatively congestion free stroll to my taxi, whereby we'd glide through the streets of London and to my warm cosy bed. That of course was the theory. Like with most of my adventures thru everyday life reality was very different…Me and my small group of chums arrived at the club after work at around 2245. the weather was awful, we'd all glammed up for the night but the heavens made short work of our efforts.
We arrived and presented our tickets, which were taken from us and swapped for golden wrist bands, nice! we were directed to the cloak room where we could finally removed our soaked through coats only to discover the cloak room was full. Now, am i just being simple minded or is one of the reasons of having a ticketed event is to know how many people would be attending said event, ergo, one could accurately predicted how much room one needed to store coats, umbrellas and hand bags from calculating the number of tickets sold!… Anyway, we were now burdened with our sodden attire as we fought our way to the VIP section and the promise of fancy cocktails, endless bowls of chocolate and table service awaited. POW! another blow to the kisser, the VIP "room" (a sectioned off area of the main room) was heaving, there were all but 5 tables with candy wrappers, half full glass and bottles, strew upon them. There clearly was no table service and as for cocktails… When atlas the bloke behind the bar finished chatting with his mate, he allowed himself a beaming smile as he informed me that they were no longer serving cocktails at this bar, didn't have beer and the only shots they were doing were about to run out.
From that moment on the night took a delightful turn for the better. We moved to the main bar, found sofas to sit on and stack our moist possessions, i got chatted up while buying drinks and everyone got to witness my panicked expression when the penny dropped and i realised she'd mistaken my playful banter for flirting. I drank 2 amazing and unusual cocktails, cheered when the clock struck midnight, hug some strangers, danced my ass off and finally convinced the lady checking coats that there was maybe just a little bit more room for our damp garments. It was so much fun… but pride comes before a fall, and this was to be an unpleasant fall…
My poor dear friend of whom i shall leave anonymous, slipped and fell on some…erm…well, i'm pretty sure she won't be reading this…she slipped in some vomit. Why this was on the dance floor and not cleaned up is a mystery. This had the knock on effect of making my friend not feel so pesky herself, and not to mentioned her lovely outfit. The next couple of hours were spent with me holding her hair back, trying to convince my taxi to get here sooner and listening to my friend apologise over and over for ruining my night. I have to say that the staff at this club were just wonderful about the situation and one girl in particular, the very girl who denied a home for our coats only hours before, was now gathering paper towels and fetching glasses of water. At 2am, and with the bar thinning out, i left the club with my pukey smelling friend in search of refuge until out respective transport took us to our homes…you can see why she wishes to remain nameless.
My taxi was booked for 3:30am…my logic was that there would be little traffic about at that time with most of the party animals out choosing to go home after the fireworks in order to catch the shitty useless pointless all night free transport TFL disdainfully provided for ripped off citizens of London…Alas, my taxi driver called me up 3:20 to explain that the roads were not yet opened into London and he couldn't give me an exact time of arrival, only that it would be at least an hour… he sounded so sorry, and he even left gaps in his sentences awaiting my angry response, but i had none. i felt sorry for him, he was going to get nothing but grief from every drunken twat he picked up for the rest of the night, while i had sobered up and would rather get home than rant down the phone. I told him not to worry and cancelled the car. I knew that although buses weren't running through London, i could walk to where there were buses and catch one there. Unsurprisingly, i wasn't the only one with this in mind and sure enough as i approached the bus stop it was not too dissimilar to the scene you get when aid is being handed out to poverty stricken countries. with a heavy sigh i continued walking, mentally calculated how long it might take walking the 9 miles home, when out of no where a heavenly orange glow glided towards me…an on duty black cab, right in front of me. My arm shot up, he pulled over, i leaned into the window and asked in a hopeful tone "Sydenham" (for that is where i live), he waved me aboard and off we sped into the night. The journey came to £25, so happy was i that i gave him £30. I got inside my house, showered, had tea and toast and vowed never to spend New Years Eve in London ever again.
Take care buddy,
Yours,
Little Dave
