65. Farewell to the Higginssons

1st March 2014, The Water Poet, Shoreditch, London

I wish I could say that I have been really supportive when it comes to the Higginssons’ decision to move to Oz.

Only I have really not been. Oz is stupid. Moving to Oz is stupid. All it is is Koala beers, getting eaten alive by giant spiders and murderous crocodiles, drinking Fosters which is like the worst of beers and hanging out on Bondi Beach every freaking day. News flash people – Koalas really aren’t all that cute plus I hear they’re perverted. And I have been to Bondi Beach and it kind of smelled. Koalas are stupid. Bondi is stupid.

My campaign on Keeping The Higginssons In The UK started just after their September wedding. Let’s face it, they’re lucky my bride’s maid speech wasn’t a protest rally rather than a poem.

Since September there’s been a constant flow of subtle hints at the stupidity of all that is Oz and the greatness of the UK. This has not worked.

There’s also been the less subtle evil stares at Mr Higginsson  (yes I blame him for all this nonsense) at the very mentioning of the land down under. Also not worked.

And occasionally, there’s been the completely unsubtle attacks on Mr Higginsson for being born Australian and for basically kidnapping one of the best friends in the world and taking her away to the other side of the planet to where the savages live. She’s tiny, he should know she won’t be able to fight off the savages all by herself. Sharing this information, also did not work. Plus Mr Higginson now thinks I’m kind of a racist.

Eventually a girls has to admit defeat. Or so they tell me. So I reluctantly made it to their leaving drinks and at the last minute also decided to leave the banners and the t-shirts at home and accept the fall down of the Swafia* and the loss of the lovely Higginssons.

Drinks were at the Water Poe. This was very appropriate considering all the fun and sometimes crazy times we’ve had there over the years. It’s our re occurring venue for boozy Sunday roasts with the team, lazy Saturdays in the sunny garden when the UK decides to acknowledge this thing called summer and epic Eurovision nights cheering Sweden on no matter how crap the song. Seriously, the Swafia* theme tune is to this day Euphoria by Loreen.

I didn’t cry. Well let’s face it, I’m the Ice Queen, but even I struggled to keep the tears away on several occasions this evening. And this was in spite of knowing I get to keep Mrs Higginsson for another month whilst Mr Higginsson was heading off the next day already.

It was one of those great epic nights that only this team can pull together. Spending the whole night in the garden having wine, spilling wine, laughing at all the bad jokes other people most likely would never get (sexual tyrannosaurus anyone?) and all sorts of trips down a very long and amazing memory lane.

Spending the hour after the Water Poet closing looking for bars without a ridiculous queue to wait in and without a guest list is not completely untypical for our group. Winding up at a random, somewhat dodgy club on one of the backstreets of Shoreditch is also not untypical. There were ping pong tables and drag queens. That’s all I have to say.

The night continued in the spirit of laughing and crazy dancing definitely not fit for any of the reality shows. But man did we have fun.

Until it was time to say our goodbyes. And the Swafia* is now officially broken with one half of my very favourite couple leaving us on a jet plane with the other half soon to follow him, embarking on their big Oz adventure.

This is the end of an era folks. And, Oz is stupid.

The traitors themselves.

Sad Face 1

Sad Face 2

Sad Face 3 & 4

Sad Face 5

Sad Face 6

Sad Face 7

Las group shot. Ever.

*Swafia = the Swedish Mafia, my London team consisting of 50% Swedes and 50% people who live their lives eating crayfish with the Swedes, watching the Swedish Chef clips whilst having champagne and dancing around the midsummer pole.