Friday nights in London.

I’ve missed Friday nights in London.

I’ve not had a social life for so long, I forget how to talk to people. It’s noisy and there are women in there. I try to remember how to be charming and articulate, and I don’t do very well.

I meet two girls that are organising a bingo evening for work, in a sort of post-ironic way. Somebody has convinced them that all Mecca bingo halls face East.

If you use a sincere enough face, people will believe anything. Clearly, given one minute’s thought, it is just not credible that all Mecca bingo halls face East. For a start, it would make finding sites well nigh impossible, given that most of them are conversions of old cinemas.

I once convinced the LTLP that, with regards to James Bond’s Aston Martin DB5, the ‘DB’ stood for ‘Dog’s Bollocks’.

We move on from the Enterprise to a restaurant. Service is good, and we dine alfresco, picking bits of lamb, onion and chilli from the pitta and soaking up the atmosphere of the petrol station.

On to a club in Camberwell. We walk in. It is not as expected. It’s like a school disco. Note: not ‘School Disco’ but ‘a school disco’. We stand at the side and peer across the dancefloor forlornly. Unlucky friend is waiting for a text from last week’s hot prospect. It doesn’t arrive. Retire to bed via a for-some-reason-still-open pub.

Woken by a ferocious argument in the street about jerk chicken. “You gonna take the chicken?!?” “You want the jerk chicken?!?” “Well fuck you then!” etc. Breakfast in a caff, bus, train and drive home.

I’ve missed Friday nights in London.

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