24th August 2014, Notting Hill Carnival, Notting Hill, London
Some people have put it down to me being bit of a princess.
They may have a point, but no matter how you twist and turn it, the very idea of a toilet that is portable and non flushing and has no hand soap or L'Occitane moisturizer is just plain wrong.
And due to my refusal to ever use a portaloo I have never attended festivals or any other outdoors activity requiring the occasional bathroom break without proper facilities. There was even a summer when I, aged 14, refused the beach for six weeks whilst the changing rooms were being refurbished and portaloos were put out in their place.
Eventually I might want to go to Glastonbury though. Like when Dave Grohl is there next. And by then I need to have prepared myself for all the circumstances that might crop up at a festival. Apart from the tent sleeping. A girl has got to draw the line somewhere.
After queuing up to pay money to go pee at someone's house and not being able to face the queue, we had to resort to the portaloos. I would have happily postponed my portaloo experience for another 10 years - and for good reason as it turns out.
In the queue with Crazy Canadian, I already start to panic. Like hyper ventilating, cleaning invisible germs away from my hands with invisible antibacterial wipes and loudly exclaiming every 30 seconds or so exactly how incredibly vile I am finding the whole concept. But I am ready. But only after tying my hair back, clinging on to any piece of clothing that may end up touching the walls otherwise and handing my Marc Jacobs bag over to Hell's Bells to look after whilst I was gone. I may have said a rather intense, dramatic and heart felt goodbye to the bag. It may have embarrassed the people around me.
Once inside this disgusting box of dread, I actually want to get physically sick. The smell, the confined space, the general lack of... clean. And where the eff is my L'Occitane?!?!
I wish I could say I got over it.
Instead I run out of that god awful invention as soon as it was humanly possible, desperately trying to get my hands on some hand sanitizer to rub exactly everywhere including my hair, but for the first time in the history of our friendship, Hell's Bells was not carrying her trusted tube of alcogel. It was actually worse of a betrayal than if she had sold my Marc Jacob's bag to the enemy for chocolate.
In the end I resorted to scrub my hands with vodka. Well worth the 10 pounds.
Wednesday, 8 October 2014
198. From Rio to London
24th August 2014, Notting Hill Carnival, Notting Hill, London
Oh there are so many reasons why Notting Hill Carnival is clearly not for me.
I don't like crowds. Or dancing. Or crowds. Or Red Stripe. Or crowds. Yes, crowds is probably the biggest reason I am not feeling any excitement towards Carnival.
Nevertheless it is one of those things you have to have done as a Londoner, right? And seven years on, it seemed like I couldn't postpone it much longer.
Following an extensive gym session and a quick drink at Hell's Bells house, we were off to Notting Hill to get this whole Carnival thing out of the way. That however turned out to be easier said than done.
After getting on the bus in Willesden Green with about a 1000 other people we spent exactly three minutes on said bus to then be dumped before we had even reached Kensal Rise. So with our fellow 1000 passengers and another gazillion Carnival goers we started our trek to where the party was allegedly at. And with that a 40 minute walk that turned into a 2 hour one.
Finally there and finally having found Crazy Canadian and Co I actually started to enjoy myself. Between the awesome vibe, beautiful people and great music I almost managed to block out the groping and the fact that the only alcohol available was out of a white can with a red stripe on it. And the groping. Did not enjoy the groping much. News flash - Swedes are evidently less liberated than Caribbeans! I however did find it surprisingly fun to dance along to the floats whilst pretending that my shoes weren't getting ruined and hoping that the smell of marijuana would not stick to my clothes.
Then we decided to go into an alley way. With a DJ in it. DJ or no DJ - alley ways are generally a bad idea. This time was no exception. However, instead of being robbed or assaulted like in the predictable American soap that is not our lives - we landed ourselves in a stampede. I am not the least claustrophobic and was never the less in panic being in the midst of that makeshift dance floor in the alley and not being able to get out. The more the DJ shouted at people to stop pushing, the more they seemed to push and the less space there seemed to be to move or even breath.
Once we finally made it out of there, one girl had gone missing and that didn't exactly lessen the panic feel along with not getting through to her phone or seeing her anywhere in the crowd. Yes, we may have acted like drama queens and perhaps there wasn't an actual need for me to climb up a lamp post to try and spot her. But oh well, fifteen minutes on she appears, wondering what all the fuss is about.
After all this drama I can definitely establish that Carnival was not my cup of tea.
I really don't like crowds. Or Red Stripe.
Oh there are so many reasons why Notting Hill Carnival is clearly not for me.
I don't like crowds. Or dancing. Or crowds. Or Red Stripe. Or crowds. Yes, crowds is probably the biggest reason I am not feeling any excitement towards Carnival.
Nevertheless it is one of those things you have to have done as a Londoner, right? And seven years on, it seemed like I couldn't postpone it much longer.
Following an extensive gym session and a quick drink at Hell's Bells house, we were off to Notting Hill to get this whole Carnival thing out of the way. That however turned out to be easier said than done.
After getting on the bus in Willesden Green with about a 1000 other people we spent exactly three minutes on said bus to then be dumped before we had even reached Kensal Rise. So with our fellow 1000 passengers and another gazillion Carnival goers we started our trek to where the party was allegedly at. And with that a 40 minute walk that turned into a 2 hour one.
Finally there and finally having found Crazy Canadian and Co I actually started to enjoy myself. Between the awesome vibe, beautiful people and great music I almost managed to block out the groping and the fact that the only alcohol available was out of a white can with a red stripe on it. And the groping. Did not enjoy the groping much. News flash - Swedes are evidently less liberated than Caribbeans! I however did find it surprisingly fun to dance along to the floats whilst pretending that my shoes weren't getting ruined and hoping that the smell of marijuana would not stick to my clothes.
Then we decided to go into an alley way. With a DJ in it. DJ or no DJ - alley ways are generally a bad idea. This time was no exception. However, instead of being robbed or assaulted like in the predictable American soap that is not our lives - we landed ourselves in a stampede. I am not the least claustrophobic and was never the less in panic being in the midst of that makeshift dance floor in the alley and not being able to get out. The more the DJ shouted at people to stop pushing, the more they seemed to push and the less space there seemed to be to move or even breath.
Once we finally made it out of there, one girl had gone missing and that didn't exactly lessen the panic feel along with not getting through to her phone or seeing her anywhere in the crowd. Yes, we may have acted like drama queens and perhaps there wasn't an actual need for me to climb up a lamp post to try and spot her. But oh well, fifteen minutes on she appears, wondering what all the fuss is about.
After all this drama I can definitely establish that Carnival was not my cup of tea.
I really don't like crowds. Or Red Stripe.
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| Crowds. |
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| Red Stripe. |
Sunday, 5 October 2014
197. A Sucky Werewolf in the Eighties
30th August 2014, Brick Lane, London
I am sad to say that on The List I had for some God forsaken reason put down An American Werewolf in London as a must-see.
I regret it. This is by far the most awful movie that I have ever put myself through. And that includes Friday the 13th Part 8, where Jason takes Manhattan and the prop guy used white plastic tubes for intestines.
I mean, I get that it was the 80's and that I shouldn't expect the special effects to be all that fantastic and that it's the rather vague genre of horror-comedy which means I shouldn't expect any Oscar performances. But come the eff on!
There is nothing about this movie that is in any way, shape or form good. Exactly nothing at all. The plot, the make up, the special effects, the frickin' credits are all shit. Had it not been for Scotty and Flatmate attacking each other (and Hell's Bells) with cupcakes, it would have been a complete waste of 97 minutes that could have been used in oh so many better ways.
The one, and only thing I'll take away from this film is the realisation that werewolf is not spelt with and 'H' and that I've been writing it wrong for 20+ years.
I thought I was over my upset of the holy crapness that is this film. But as I write this I realise that is not the case. I need a Valium.
I am sad to say that on The List I had for some God forsaken reason put down An American Werewolf in London as a must-see.
I regret it. This is by far the most awful movie that I have ever put myself through. And that includes Friday the 13th Part 8, where Jason takes Manhattan and the prop guy used white plastic tubes for intestines.
I mean, I get that it was the 80's and that I shouldn't expect the special effects to be all that fantastic and that it's the rather vague genre of horror-comedy which means I shouldn't expect any Oscar performances. But come the eff on!
There is nothing about this movie that is in any way, shape or form good. Exactly nothing at all. The plot, the make up, the special effects, the frickin' credits are all shit. Had it not been for Scotty and Flatmate attacking each other (and Hell's Bells) with cupcakes, it would have been a complete waste of 97 minutes that could have been used in oh so many better ways.
The one, and only thing I'll take away from this film is the realisation that werewolf is not spelt with and 'H' and that I've been writing it wrong for 20+ years.
I thought I was over my upset of the holy crapness that is this film. But as I write this I realise that is not the case. I need a Valium.
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| Probably the worst movie made in the history of man. |
196. Trekking on the Thames
30th August 2014, Thames Path, London
Bank holidays.
Those beautiful weekends of getting to wake up hungover three days in a row rather than two. Or perhaps not this time!
For the first time in history, me and Hell's Bells had decided that spending 72 hours in and out of the pub was no good anymore. Instead, we were going to do something reasonable and actually healthy. Which prompted someone (blonde, not brunette) to suggest walking the Thames Path.
Somewhere along the way we cut down on the ambition level and agreed that maybe doing the full 8 hour walk between Kingston and Greenwich along the Thames may be a bit too big of a task.
Every occasion in a girl's life requires an appropriate outfit. People don't seem to get that. In this case the theme was Girls in the 90's who do sport. In other words, a pink floral trucker cap was the perfect choice to go with and damn it, I stand by that. Plus the cap matched my new hiking boots. They're also pink. They're not comfortable.
Starting off the walk there we were simply beaming with positive spirits and bundles of energy. That lasted for about 10 minutes before pee break number one and blisters one through to four. Well at least those hiking boots were cute.
Another three hours in we decided we could get away with stopping at the river side pub and get ourselves lunch and ice for my blisters. And of course to charge our phones - you obviously can not go for a trek without measuring out the distance and provide evidence that you've had a non alcohol fuelled Saturday out.
We haven't quite established if having chips and dessert with our lunch may have defeated the purpose of walking a million miles. But it was crazy yummy. It was also amazing to sit down for a bit, admire the views and check out the plastic raft pirates. Apparently these things happen outside of Shoreditch too,
Somehow we managed to leave the pub in the end and keep on walking, although the second half was much tougher than the first. The ice cold rain did not help and at another loo and water pit stop in Battersea Park, we caved after walking for about 5 hours.
Instead begun the fun task of trying to get home from the TFL no man's land that is the area around Battersea to civilization in Shoreditch where dinner and movie night awaited us.
Next time: Battersea Park to Greenwhich.
Bank holidays.
Those beautiful weekends of getting to wake up hungover three days in a row rather than two. Or perhaps not this time!
For the first time in history, me and Hell's Bells had decided that spending 72 hours in and out of the pub was no good anymore. Instead, we were going to do something reasonable and actually healthy. Which prompted someone (blonde, not brunette) to suggest walking the Thames Path.
Somewhere along the way we cut down on the ambition level and agreed that maybe doing the full 8 hour walk between Kingston and Greenwich along the Thames may be a bit too big of a task.
Every occasion in a girl's life requires an appropriate outfit. People don't seem to get that. In this case the theme was Girls in the 90's who do sport. In other words, a pink floral trucker cap was the perfect choice to go with and damn it, I stand by that. Plus the cap matched my new hiking boots. They're also pink. They're not comfortable.
Starting off the walk there we were simply beaming with positive spirits and bundles of energy. That lasted for about 10 minutes before pee break number one and blisters one through to four. Well at least those hiking boots were cute.
Another three hours in we decided we could get away with stopping at the river side pub and get ourselves lunch and ice for my blisters. And of course to charge our phones - you obviously can not go for a trek without measuring out the distance and provide evidence that you've had a non alcohol fuelled Saturday out.
We haven't quite established if having chips and dessert with our lunch may have defeated the purpose of walking a million miles. But it was crazy yummy. It was also amazing to sit down for a bit, admire the views and check out the plastic raft pirates. Apparently these things happen outside of Shoreditch too,
Somehow we managed to leave the pub in the end and keep on walking, although the second half was much tougher than the first. The ice cold rain did not help and at another loo and water pit stop in Battersea Park, we caved after walking for about 5 hours.
Instead begun the fun task of trying to get home from the TFL no man's land that is the area around Battersea to civilization in Shoreditch where dinner and movie night awaited us.
Next time: Battersea Park to Greenwhich.
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| High spirits pre walk! |
195. Vaporized
17th August 2014, Vape Lab, Shoreditch, London
I must admit that I don't quite get this whole e-cigarette craze spreading across London at the moment. But then again I don't get smoking in the first place.
Although I may not get it, I am quite intrigued. It basically looks like you're walking around puffing away on teeny tiny bong which looks all so... Amsterdam.
Following the e-cigarette and vaporizer trend, there is obviously a café devoted to this new hipster activity and obviously that café is in Shoreditch where all silly trends tend to start. Give it a few months and you'll even have them in Fulham and by then, the 'Ditch will already have moved on to greater things.
Said café is Vape on Shoreditch High Street. And after a much needed greasy lunch at the Crown & Shuttle with Miss Ukraine, this was about the most strenuous activity on The List that I could cope with in my very hungover state.
Or so I thought. Once in there, the only thing I managed was a skinny latte and smoking anything was not on the map. Learning how to work the gizmos, even less so. Miss Ukraine however was in full blown business mode and started to organize work shops for PR campaign. I was just in full blown napping mode.
Although opposed to the idea in principle, it was a very cool place and they didn't take the lab theme completely overboard. Although there were some very snazzy doctor's coats there that I have every intention trying on next time I'm tipsy on the high street.
More bongs for the people!
I must admit that I don't quite get this whole e-cigarette craze spreading across London at the moment. But then again I don't get smoking in the first place.
Although I may not get it, I am quite intrigued. It basically looks like you're walking around puffing away on teeny tiny bong which looks all so... Amsterdam.
Following the e-cigarette and vaporizer trend, there is obviously a café devoted to this new hipster activity and obviously that café is in Shoreditch where all silly trends tend to start. Give it a few months and you'll even have them in Fulham and by then, the 'Ditch will already have moved on to greater things.
Said café is Vape on Shoreditch High Street. And after a much needed greasy lunch at the Crown & Shuttle with Miss Ukraine, this was about the most strenuous activity on The List that I could cope with in my very hungover state.
Or so I thought. Once in there, the only thing I managed was a skinny latte and smoking anything was not on the map. Learning how to work the gizmos, even less so. Miss Ukraine however was in full blown business mode and started to organize work shops for PR campaign. I was just in full blown napping mode.
Although opposed to the idea in principle, it was a very cool place and they didn't take the lab theme completely overboard. Although there were some very snazzy doctor's coats there that I have every intention trying on next time I'm tipsy on the high street.
More bongs for the people!
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| Men at work! |
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| The Lab, clearly |
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| A tidy little bong selection |
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| Does what it says on the box I guess |
Saturday, 4 October 2014
194. Bunga Bunga For Real
16th August 2014, Bunga Bunga, Battersea, London
We had reached out final destination of the day. Finally we were at Bunga Bunga. It went much better than last time I tried going there.
When in the past I've tried to describe the concept of Bunga Bunga to people, I've usually started with asking the people in question if they know Silvio Berlusconi. This is when I normally get the first odd look from whoever I'm explaining this concept to. I usually follow up with asking if they know about his silicon and limoncello infested sex parties. This normally causes a look of regret for even requesting the explanation in the first place. When I then proceed to tell them that Bunga Bunga is the term used to describe said parties, they usually take a step back in disgust thinking I am suggesting they should attend a swingers club.
I really need to stop telling people about Bunga Bunga.
Basically, it's tacky gone posh. It is in West London after all (said in glottal Chelsea accent). Think pizza and champagne, karaoke and Prada bag, trucker caps and Ferraris.
It was also the perfect venue for Camel's hen do. Kicking things off with table length pizza and bellinis, proudly wearing our yellow Bunga Bunga caps and singing karaoke may not sound fancy. But it was fabulous. And nothing but.
Most importantly, the future bride seemed to have had a great time. That adorable Camel laugh could easily be heard over the karaoke noise and that was during the dinner alone. By the time we brought out the cake, she reached whole new levels of finding things hilarious. Never have a girl been that excited to eat something in the shape of her own face before.
Following cake, and of course more wine, there was the dancing. In our own little corner of the club there was dancing like never before and there was no amount of sweat, blood or tears to end it. Although eventually they had to close. And we left, under silent protest.
Following what may just have been the most fun night of 2014, I landed myself in a cab home with Barbra and the Camel. Then I realised I don't live in West London. Oh well. Off to Camel and Bicycle Man's for some sleep it was. And possible the worst pasta I have ever eaten.
Now. Just bring on Sicily!
We had reached out final destination of the day. Finally we were at Bunga Bunga. It went much better than last time I tried going there.
When in the past I've tried to describe the concept of Bunga Bunga to people, I've usually started with asking the people in question if they know Silvio Berlusconi. This is when I normally get the first odd look from whoever I'm explaining this concept to. I usually follow up with asking if they know about his silicon and limoncello infested sex parties. This normally causes a look of regret for even requesting the explanation in the first place. When I then proceed to tell them that Bunga Bunga is the term used to describe said parties, they usually take a step back in disgust thinking I am suggesting they should attend a swingers club.
I really need to stop telling people about Bunga Bunga.
Basically, it's tacky gone posh. It is in West London after all (said in glottal Chelsea accent). Think pizza and champagne, karaoke and Prada bag, trucker caps and Ferraris.
It was also the perfect venue for Camel's hen do. Kicking things off with table length pizza and bellinis, proudly wearing our yellow Bunga Bunga caps and singing karaoke may not sound fancy. But it was fabulous. And nothing but.
Most importantly, the future bride seemed to have had a great time. That adorable Camel laugh could easily be heard over the karaoke noise and that was during the dinner alone. By the time we brought out the cake, she reached whole new levels of finding things hilarious. Never have a girl been that excited to eat something in the shape of her own face before.
Following cake, and of course more wine, there was the dancing. In our own little corner of the club there was dancing like never before and there was no amount of sweat, blood or tears to end it. Although eventually they had to close. And we left, under silent protest.
Following what may just have been the most fun night of 2014, I landed myself in a cab home with Barbra and the Camel. Then I realised I don't live in West London. Oh well. Off to Camel and Bicycle Man's for some sleep it was. And possible the worst pasta I have ever eaten.
Now. Just bring on Sicily!
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| Possibly the greatest cake ever! |
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| Possibly the greatest apron ever. |
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| Possibly the only time of the day I saw the bride sit still for a second or two. |
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| Possibly the most important part of any party - the picking up the Camel. |
193. Limo for the Ladies
16th August 2014, West Kensington to Battersea, London
We've all want to try it at least once whether or not we're willing to admit it.
I'm talking about limos folks. And not the classy, Grace Kelly-esque kind, but the pink monstrosities that are the hen do limos.
And now it was happening. We figured that after all the class and sophistication that formed the first part of the Camel's hen do, we could get away with the tackiest means of transportation known to man kind. And finally I got to ride in a glossy pink 9 seater complete with hen do banners, bride-to-be balloons and L-Plates! Every girls (and secretly most men's) dream.
Finding said limo was surprisingly not a very easy task. In the end, I had made about 20 odd phone calls to various limousine companies pleading with them to please let us have a limo. Maybe just a little one then? Maybe if you make that other group of girls walk like normal people? Pleeeeease?
After bringing myself to the edge of frustration, I found it. In Essex. Now there's not a surprise.
I wound up speaking to one extremely patient and helpful man who I've decided to call Joe. Primarily and only because I wasn't listening as he said his name. Joe spent a good 15 minutes describing the exact shade of metallic baby pink of the car to me and at the end of the longest conversation in his life he had somehow thrown in extra bottle of champagne and a bunch of freebies I am fairly certain he never intended to chuck in. Good old Joe.
Following our accidental hen do at the Camel's local, we managed to get inside her flat to make ourselves look pretty, drink some more champagne and carefully dodge any questions from the bride to be with regards to the upcoming events of the evening. Now telling is not fun is it?
Ten minutes ahead of the set time of limo launch we get the call to say the driver, whom I also decided to call Joe, was a few minutes away. At this stage we were all getting rather excited and giggly (that last bit may have been champagne related) but did our best not to cause suspicion. We failed miserably and had a rather nervous (and also giggly!) bride on our hands.
As soon as she got outside though, those nerves were gone and we were back at that laugh and the repeated squeals sounding something like 'OH MY GOD!' The Camel must be the best subject to surprise there ever was, nowhere else can you get that level of excitement and happiness. And this is why we love her.
Without a doubt, this was the most fun, and expensive, car ride of my life. Again, it may have been champagne related. You're not allowed champagne in black cabs. Or most other cabs. I've tried.
It was basically a party on wheels. Music, glitter, balloons and a fair bit of sit-down-dancing. We could have easily continued the party in the limo for hours to come, but settled for circling Central London but once and I don't think Joe minded just getting an hour in with our lot. There's only so many 'more champagne!', 'more music!', 'more faster!' a man can be expected to take from an overly excited hen party. He handled it well though. Very patient breed those Joes.
Soon that was it. We had arrived and were ready to let the last and most extraordinary segment of this party commence!
We've all want to try it at least once whether or not we're willing to admit it.
I'm talking about limos folks. And not the classy, Grace Kelly-esque kind, but the pink monstrosities that are the hen do limos.
And now it was happening. We figured that after all the class and sophistication that formed the first part of the Camel's hen do, we could get away with the tackiest means of transportation known to man kind. And finally I got to ride in a glossy pink 9 seater complete with hen do banners, bride-to-be balloons and L-Plates! Every girls (and secretly most men's) dream.
Finding said limo was surprisingly not a very easy task. In the end, I had made about 20 odd phone calls to various limousine companies pleading with them to please let us have a limo. Maybe just a little one then? Maybe if you make that other group of girls walk like normal people? Pleeeeease?
After bringing myself to the edge of frustration, I found it. In Essex. Now there's not a surprise.
I wound up speaking to one extremely patient and helpful man who I've decided to call Joe. Primarily and only because I wasn't listening as he said his name. Joe spent a good 15 minutes describing the exact shade of metallic baby pink of the car to me and at the end of the longest conversation in his life he had somehow thrown in extra bottle of champagne and a bunch of freebies I am fairly certain he never intended to chuck in. Good old Joe.
Following our accidental hen do at the Camel's local, we managed to get inside her flat to make ourselves look pretty, drink some more champagne and carefully dodge any questions from the bride to be with regards to the upcoming events of the evening. Now telling is not fun is it?
Ten minutes ahead of the set time of limo launch we get the call to say the driver, whom I also decided to call Joe, was a few minutes away. At this stage we were all getting rather excited and giggly (that last bit may have been champagne related) but did our best not to cause suspicion. We failed miserably and had a rather nervous (and also giggly!) bride on our hands.
As soon as she got outside though, those nerves were gone and we were back at that laugh and the repeated squeals sounding something like 'OH MY GOD!' The Camel must be the best subject to surprise there ever was, nowhere else can you get that level of excitement and happiness. And this is why we love her.
Without a doubt, this was the most fun, and expensive, car ride of my life. Again, it may have been champagne related. You're not allowed champagne in black cabs. Or most other cabs. I've tried.
It was basically a party on wheels. Music, glitter, balloons and a fair bit of sit-down-dancing. We could have easily continued the party in the limo for hours to come, but settled for circling Central London but once and I don't think Joe minded just getting an hour in with our lot. There's only so many 'more champagne!', 'more music!', 'more faster!' a man can be expected to take from an overly excited hen party. He handled it well though. Very patient breed those Joes.
Soon that was it. We had arrived and were ready to let the last and most extraordinary segment of this party commence!
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| At the very height of excitement. |
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| Our very own mobile night club! |
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