227. Sticky Fingers, Soggy Macaroni

8th November 2014, Sticky Fingers, Kensington, London

Possibly through some level of divine intevention, I succesfully dragged myself out of bed, put my face back on and forced myself Westwards once more for another outing with some rather fabulous ladies.

Following a hellish tube ride (there were other people there) to Kensington I finally arrived at Sticky Fingers where the other two members of the Blonde Ambition Trio were waiting. We used to be a quartet but then Yummy Mummy abandoned us for silly Singapore. 

Seeing how hungover I was at this stage, the one thing that kept me going was the idea of some properly greasy American grub. With cheese on top. Seriously, anything with cheese would basically have worked for me. Or so I thought.

It's quite a cool place - but what else would you expect from an ex Rolling Stone? Old fashioned diner style with plenty of rock memorabilia, even the waiters look all rock star-esque. So with regards to ambience - well done Mr Wyman!

After chatting for ages about exams (Blonde no 1), travels (Blonde no 2) and man drama (Blonde no 3) we came upon the horrible realisation that all this talking was done with very dry throats. Where on earth were our drinks?

It ended up being a 20 minutes wait for a very bland hair-of-the-dog mojito - which I in my very hungover state was not at all prepared for. Speed and strength  would have been two very strong selling points for me at the time. But, the waitress was so lovely and apologetic that I couldn't really bring myself to be annoyed with her. Damn, hungover me - loosing my touch completely.

After the bland drinks, we were onto the food. Now I really wanted this to be amazing. Nothing would fix me like a perfect all-American food orgy. That sadly did not happen. The burger was quite tasteless, the paprika fries over spiced and the Mac'n'Cheese terrible. How can you fail so badly at Mac'n'Cheese?! Pret a Manger manages just fine and theirs is mass produced and only £4.95!

It was somehow too cheesy - I did not even know there was such a thing! Well, the top was too cheesy and non-crusty whilst the rest was just soggy. It really was not an enjoyable experience and fixed exactly non of my hangover.

The ribs did look good though. And I don't even like ribs! So maybe that's where we went wrong.

After the unsatisfying meal I tried to wake myself up with an espresso martini and failed miserably. In other words, our grand plans of heading to Blag Club or Piano Bar post dinner were shattered as I attempted a power nap in our booth.

45 minutes after leaving I arrived back home in Shoreditch and could not resist grabbing a pizza slice whilst walking home from Aldgate. Now that is the type of cheesiness I'm talking about!

A trio of blondes!

Plenty of grease!

Failed attempt at waking myself up!

226. Fireworks and Flamingos

7th November 2014, Roof Gardens, Kensington, London

It did turn into one of those epic nights didn't it?

Seeing as I have never gone to see fire works on or around Guy Fawkes and seeing as I absolutely love fire works, it seemed like going to Kensington Roof Gardens for their bonfire party would be a great idea. And as it turns out it was until I woke up the next morning.

Following a fairly inedible meal at Aubaine with Crazy Canadian and SkandiQueen, we queued up on Derry Street, ready for some serious fireworking. Not to mention, wine drinking and flamingo kidnapping. But we'll get to that.

As per usual, Roof Gardens was packed and the odds of us getting any drinks in on the right side of midnight were slim. Instead, I wondered off to try and find the roofgarden flamingos. Armed with alcohol infused bravery, a semi genius plan and a big coat - what could stop me?

It turns out, the security people could. In spite of my extremely subtle questioning and a genuine interest in flamingo keeping they just refused to tell me where they keep the damn birds at night. Fine. I didn't want to get flamingo poo on my Pringle of Scotland cape anyway.  

After the failed flamingo hunt, I found my girls again and with no further luck at the bar, Crazy Canadian had a plan. She is so resourceful that one. Before we knew it, we were at some comedy club hidden behind the gardens and although we were probably not suppose to be there - drinks took circa 60 seconds to reach my hands. Which is about a hundred times faster than had we stuck to the main bar.

We found our spot to watch the fireworks and managed to win ourselves some Italian groupies whilst we were at it. We then spent 45 odd minutes listening to their disliking of anything London (know your audience boys!) whilst waiting for the fireworks to get started already. And when they did, I got so excited I may have drenched both Italian groupies and myself in champagne. I learnt that night that a champagne soak does nothing for a good blow dry.

Also, it turned out that my excitement was in vain as these were terrible fireworks. I strongly suggest that their pyro technician goes on a study tour to Disneyworld. 

Following the disappointing fireworks, the crazy really got started. As most people know, I'm not big on dancing at all and usually when I do dance - it's a sign of the kind of drunkeness leaving you still a bit tipsy the next day. Crazy Canadian knows this and out of nowhere the shots started to appear. And after that, there sure was dancing. Wear-out-my-Louboutin-soles-level-dancing.

The rest is all a bit blurry to be honest. But I did at one stage come across some rather dapper looking gentlemen in black tie gear who were clearly intoxicated (or possibly mentally unstable) enough to want to hang with us. In other words, they were basically asking for me to steal one of their bowties and wear it as an Alice band. And I looked simply adorable.

More craziness followed and at 4 am or so I stumbled home, Louboutins in hand and my bow tie adorned hair smelling like champagne and passed out in my bed, aka my very best friend.

I suppose the guy won't want his bowtie back any time soon?

Pre craziness

At the very beginning of crazy

 

Unsatisfying fireworks!

225. Jack and his Weird Cousin from the Country

1st November 2014, Brick Lane, London

For someone who obsesses with most big holidays, whether or not they're native to either of my home countries or not - people would be surprised to know that I've never celebrated proper Halloween.

Get me right, I've occasionally have been dragged out on Halloween at the last minute and been forced to buy a £2.50 black mask from Tesco - but that is literally it. No 4 week countdown, no sewing feathers onto a head dress, no witch themed cupcakes, no dry ice cocktails. It's extra surprising considering my general love for anything a bit camp. Seriously, the first time I saw a mardi gras I nearly cried because it was so beautiful in all its' tackiness.

Unfortunately there was still no real Halloween party for me this time around due to an outfit mishap. In other words, my sea shell crown had not arrived! Disaster.

In terms of Halloween celebrations, I had to settle for making pumpkin lanterns for the first time. Seeing as I'm not all that creative - this was never going to be a great success.

The frustration started with actually just carving the damn seeds out. It took frickin' forever and the world's most annoying seeds just kept reproducing and the more I dug, the more seeds were there. Why on earth did I have to get two pumpkins?

Once emptied (both pumpkin and patience) I thought it would be a clever idea to make myself a clown! Somewhere along the way I missed the note on learning to walk before attempting to run.

It was probably the creepiest clown ever - but that was sadly because he looked a bit like a clown whom someone had stabbed in the face with a fork. Which is pretty much what happened.

The next lantern was far more classic and much less freestyle. And coincidently, a lot less creepy than the clown cousin.

Halloween - still not my favourite holiday..!

Jack and the mutilated clown.

224. Peel off

28th October 2014, Pharaoh Beauty, Shoreditch, London

As previously confirmed, I'm in the midst of an about-to-turn-30-crisis.

So on top of fake face lifts and various other treatments where I essentially pay people to poke me with various objects to de-sag my face.

This time I decided to simply get my skin peeled off. No age preventing measure is too desperate.

Basically I let someone attack my face with an electric file. I'm sure I've seen a really bad 90's horror film with that theme. Or maybe that was an electric drill. Anyway!

As it turns out, the benefits of having your skin peeled up does not weigh up the time, money or agony spent on having it done. I still looked 29 (and maybe a half).

The battle continues!

223. Face Lift for Cowards

28th October 2014, Pharaoh Beauty, Shoreditch, London

Yep, the fear of turning 30 is most definitely there.

Hence, I am taking any action possible to keep my face from sagging – as long as it won’t entail people approaching my head with scalpels. I am not quite ready for that yet.

The latest trial in my war against a 30-something-face, are non surgical face lifts. In other words, someone prodding your face with a mini hoover to allegedly plump it all up.

I’m not sure it’s actually referred to as a hoover, but it’s essentially it. Looks a bit like a bar code scanner, only it sucks on your face rather than establish your price. And to be honest – I’d rather have that thing suck on my face than some disastrous first dates who failed to see the difference between a persons’ mouth and their cheeks, chin and nose.

So after 30 minutes of face sucking, 3 times in one week, was there any result? None, whatsoever. I definitely still look like I might enter a new decade next year.

I least I got a nap listening to dolphins!

222. Girlie Brews

25th October 2014, BrewDog, Shoreditch, London

I am by no means a keen beer drinker.

At midnight in Shoreditch though, I am far more keen to drink beer than paying to get into a crowded club and be forced to, god forbid, dance.

So rather than saving BrewDog  for my date the next day (and someone who was likely to be more impressed with the chosen venue), me and Crazy Canadian headed over for that ever famous last one drink. As two women both in an intense love affair with wine, we were really the wrong audience for this place.

At the bar I spotted a guide for wine drinkers to choose the right beer for them as they categorically don't serve anything other than beer. Although that is rather sweet, I still was suspicious. Which the bartender could probably tell as he approached me the same way you would approach a kid refusing to enter the dentist's practice. In other words, re assuring, calm and willing to promise me a new Barbie if I was a good girl and at least tried not to bite the dentist. That's good service for you.

He refused to call them girlie beers. But we both knew that's what they were. These fruit cake flavoured fizzy samples of all variety colours and bubbliness that he provided me with. And they were actually quite nice. In a girlie beer sort of way.

I won't be attacking the Guinness anytime soon - but I can get on board with more girlie beers. If they're pink.

Girlie Beers.

221. My Favourite Type of Club

25th October 2014, London Cocktail Club, Shoreditch, London

London Cocktail Club is a series of super quirky bars across the city rumoured to have some of the best cocktails in town.

The concept seemed like a lot of fun. Aside from a focus on well made and inventive cocktails, each venue has its' own theme - rather than the one-size-fits-all approach used by the likes of Drake & Morgan. We're talking punk and gin in Goodge Street, gangster and tequila at Oxford Circus, and now, biker club and whiskey in Shoreditch.

Not having been to any of their other venues, I couldn't very well get away with missing out on the new place in my very own hood. So, following dim sum at Drunken Monkey and cocktails at Beach Blanket Babylon me and Crazy Canadian headed over for opening night at LCC Shoreditch for even more cocktails.

At the first glance it already looked like a rather happening spot with it's concrete floors, exposed pipes and rusty stools for seating. The bartenders in flower garlands and Darth Vader masks added that extra bit of weird that I need to truly love a bar.

And the cocktails. Oh man. The first girlie fruity concoction to cross my lips was borderline orgasmic and could easily have survived only drinking that for the remainder of the year. However (there always has to be a but right?), my cocktail took a good 25 minutes to show, as did Crazy Canadian's wine. The waitress, adorable as she was, seemed very much out of her depth and after asking her for our order twice - we wound up having to rather bluntly organise our drinks with the bartender ourselves before finally taking our seats and preventing the death-by-thirst that was soon to be a reality.

We had managed to snag ourselves a great corner table which was great for people watching and although I spotted one or two Essex blogger girls having ventured away from the mainstream quirkiness at Old Street - it was overall a very cool crowd.

And then I spotted the condom on the table.

Worried that we had landed ourselves in some after hours swinger's club - some people definitely looked like the types - disguised as a cocktail club, we approached a bartender passing by asking him about our findings. On that note, approaching a stranger with a condom - never a good idea. After some strange looks and concerned facial expressions on his party, he kindly explained to us that it was part of a cocktail garnish before he basically ran away from us as fast as he could. I'll give them points for inventiveness.

As we were ready for another cocktail, the cocktail waitress sadly was not and after yet another 30 minute wait, we had to cave in and leave. We were not that desperately thirsty anymore.

So I never got to try the Pirate Radio. But I will definitely be back to do so. My song of choice? Baby Got Back, of course.

Just your standard bartender uniform.

Next time!

Fruity yumminess!