|Excellent weekend, or, spot the theme.
Mad Scientess Jane Expat
On Friday I visited the Borough Market, which is south of the Thames near the London Bridge tube stop. It's a farmer's market. I went a little nuts. The best things I bought were a bottle of basil-infused extra virgin olive oil, some fresh pesto, and a loaf of bread to eat them with. Yum. There was a stand with about 4000 different kinds of sausages. Another had whole braces of rabbit and pheasant (unskinned, unplucked) hanging up, and another was selling exclusively ostrich meat products, including some delicious-looking steaks and burgers, that was so popular I couldn't stand in line long enough to buy anything. My backpack was too heavy by that point. I will have to return.|
That evening we went to Stay Beautiful at the Purple Turtle in Camden and met capitalflash and sparklepbass. Unfortunately, we were all miffed at having been carded at the door. It's an over-18 club. Mary and Joanna's roommate had to go all the way back home to fetch her ID. They very nearly didn't let me in because I didn't have my wallet with me. In the end, Marco convinced the bouncer that he wasn't robbing the cradle. I know I look young, but I don't look that young. A few gin and tonics for us, some snakebite and black for the others, a little bit of the Wu (RIP, ODB) and we were mostly happy and dancing again. A band called The Modern played a short set. Like capitalflash, I felt transported back to 1983. However, I'm of the firm opinion that retro-anything almost always looks way better than the original style. No one can do 80s like the indie kids of now. Seriously. I looked ridiculous in legwarmers. These people look hot.
We got up late on Saturday and cooked ourselves a full English. This is has become a ritual, and a mighty tasty one it is. We were responsible and did some important shopping, and then we were irresponsible and went to the Oxford Arms on Camden High Street to watch the Barcelona vs. Real Madrid game and eat bangers and mash. We were dressed for our subsequent club venture and so attracted a lot of attention, including that of some lovely Brazilian people who were also Barca fans. There was a lady behind us perving on Henrik Larsson, so I felt right at home. (Mmm. Bald.) Barcelona won 3-0. We went off to Strength Through Joy with much noisy glee. The three pints we consumed during the game might have had something to do with that.
Strength Through Joy billed itself as an old-school industrial club, and boy did it deliver. I think I'm glad it's only once a month, otherwise we might end up getting to know some of the scenesters. I prefer to be anonymous. You can get more dancing in that way. Additionally, it means you can giggle at people's dancing without offending anyone. And I have to say, I was not impressed by a single person's dancing at this club. It's not good when I feel cocky enough to go all out and do whatever I want on the dance floor the first night I'm attending a particular club. I would rank myself as a slightly above average dancer for the following reasons:
1) I have a sense of rhythm.
2) I can lift my feet AND turn them. Ooh!
3) I can move my elbows above chest height.
4) I can be bothered to move my hips to do more than grind on my friends for the benefit of other clubgoers.
I am not the best industrial dancer I have ever seen. ladybug007 and vndictivesprite are better than I am, along with a number of other LA and SD scenesters I recognize but don't know by name. However, when I look around a club and see that most of the other people in the room aren't in possession of (1), I am slightly appalled. It did mean that we largely had plenty of room to dance, and everyone was polite about their dance floor space. I have noticed that people have more of a tendency to bring their drinks (and cigarettes) onto the dance floor than they do in the US. This could partly be because a lot of club and bars get very crowded and smoky, which makes it difficult to keep an eye on your drink. I confess, it does still make me a leetle bit stabby.
In spite of the lack of dancing eye candy (although some of it looked pretty while standing still), the venue was intimate - the perfect size for the some sixty-odd people in attendance - and the music was very pleasing to a grumpy old-schooler's ears. Einstuerzende Neubauten, KMFDM, Puppy, FLA, 242, YAY.
On Sunday, we got up late and went to La Fromagerie off of Baker Street and had some nostril-hair-scorching soft cheeses and bread. The service was, as we were told by the French girls ahead of us in line, "typically English." I guess this means that any time you want something extravagant, like say, a menu, or possibly to place your order, you have to attract the attention of your waiter through some fairly dramatic waving action. Afterwards, I bought a bottle of delicious mead for only six quid. We drank the whole thing that evening and played X-Men Legends until way past bedtime.
In summary, we got pissed on Friday and went dancing, got pissed on Saturday and went dancing and got pissed on Sunday and played video games. It doesn't get much better than that.