I was clearly “on one” this week, and my weekend was taken no prisoners either. The Clapham Irregulars had managed to somehow actually get their arses into gear and actually arrange something that wasn’t either a half-arsed piss-up or a dinner party/piss-up. After a throwaway conversation between Suzy, Pete and yours sometimes-truly, a chance remark at my work and a bit of blagging by Pete, we found ourselves on Saturday going… BOWLING!
Right, now, before you get into your minds that we rocked up to some hideous “mega”bowl in some God awful arse end part of London – let’s say Streatham for the sake of argument - we’d actually rolled all the way to Bloomsbury to Allstar Lanes, which is this absolutely fucking awesome 50s style diner/cocktail lounge/bowling alley that just completely rocked (and rolled) my world.
Now let’s get this straight, when it comes to organised team sports, the Clapham Irregulars are, well, shite. But we actually managed to pull the ten-pin thing out of the bag. Well, most of us did. To be fair, Maria got beat by a 6-year-old girl, Dani may as well have had her hands replaced with wet sponges and The Kid wasn’t amazing in the first round (and boy did he show it, the grumpy little sod – note to self: always let him win or, if feeling particularly cruel, always let him lose). After a few bottles of surprisingly nice house wine (though for £16 a bottle it should have been okay) we all found our stride on the lanes, and The Kid had found his smile again. We soon retired to the bar area which again was fantastic and by eleven o’clock we were dancing by the bar, whilst other normal patrons just gawked, slack-jawed. Och well.
The Gays went on to Ghetto for Wig Out, while the Normals went to crash a 30th party of a friend-of-a-friend. It gets a bit blurry after that, but suffice to say The Kid had to take me home as I was a little… shaky. Bummer. Been a long time since mister twitchy came out to play, and I must say I’m not too keen to see him again for a while. He not only give me knots in my back the size of cricket balls, but he also makes me feel the worst Hangover Guilt in the world the following day. Awful. But The Kid was amazing, and not the least bit anything other than totally love him. If I was a teacher, and he was in my class, he would have lots of big gold stars by his name.
Was the teacher analogy slightly inappropriate?