Saturday, 27 August 2011

The okuvango aka safari politics of the club scene.

I’m pretty sure I wasn’t away from the club scene for that long but it’s all got a bit vulgar; much like a scene from the Okavango in Botswana (let’s not deny you haven’t watched that documentary... and if you haven’t then please leave. David Attenborough. WOW. David Attenborough)
Last week I made my way back onto the “members only” club scenes of the West End. Those who have ever had the misfortune to actually be part of this scene will know that this isn’t as exclusive as it sounds. The term “members only” exists to legitimately discriminate against who can come in or not. So unless you’re dressed up to the nines like Hugo from Made in Chelsea... you just ain’t getting in son!
Whilst the drinks might be three times the price of the student digs I used to hang out in, the situation is still the same. It’s still a sleazy sex scene and just because the sofas are leather, not pleather... and just because the girls wear underwear and the boys wear suits doesn’t mean that the safari politics differ that much. Well I suppose I do like a good game of hunting, shooting, fishing. 

The LIONS. scope out their prey, strutting around the side lines to check out the victims on offer. Dressed to impress they can often be identified by a POCKET SQUARE! The more sinister of male fashion accessories out there!! Lines like “oh girl, you’re beautiful” and using pet names like “babe” or “love” (usually because they don’t bother to remember your name) is common. Whilst they purr like a kitten, they’re pretty vicious and they’re not about to take you out and wine and dine you. Be aware of their intentions and try not to mix them up with genuine people who are genuinely interested in your degree major/job/charity work. 
The VULTURES. Wait at the side lines and pick away at what’s left. And when I say pick away, I mean it. All a girl like me wants to do is dance away to the music without any erections trying to back into me or a tongue trying to jump down my throat. I’m not sure if people realise that actually some people JUST. LIKE. DANCING. It doesn’t have to be a mating ritual. Well the vultures thrive on girls like me. When I’ve managed to bat off those trying to grind up against me “by accident”, vultures swoop in and GRAB; pecking away at what’s on the dancefloor, especially after the lions have fucked off with any antelope they can get their teeth into and bundled them in the back of a cab, or maybe even just the night bus home.
The ANTELOPE. These are the poor girls who obviously don’t come out here that often. They hail from the countryside... or anywhere outside of the M25. Excited to be doused with free alcohol which made the predators all the more appealing they clutch their bags close by and nervously dance near the lions until they are snapped up in their jaws! Walk of shame or not the hazy memory is always one glossed over my rose tinted spectacles... To them that lion was a millionaire entrepreneur who was so busy with meetings in Zurich that he had to give the girl the boot at 7am... Not because he was a broke dick who wanted the girl out before his parents woke up to find “another one” sitting round the breakfast table.

All in all, being back there reminded me that men are gross sometimes. And the VIP club scene is just as MESSY and definitely didn't make me feel 'very important' at all. The next morning I woke and had no idea why I couldn’t stay vertical without wanting to chunder. Then I had a flashback to someone pouring a magnum sized vodka bottle straight into my mouth and numerous DOUBLE tequila shots... Then it all became clear... And then it went fuzzy again.

So if the VIP club scene is not where I’ll find Mr. Right, where to next? Should I take to the scary world of internet dating? Or even questionable blind dates set up by even more questionable best friends? I’ve got a month left in the country so who knows!

Thursday, 14 April 2011

ice cream, Liberty's and learning to love doughnuts. or how I got over unrequited love

Window shopping is my biggest vice. Having vowed not to buy anything new before my trip to Asia as a means to save money I still manage to torture myself by spending whole afternoons wandering around the glorious Liberty’s picking out luxurious bags, shoes,  scarves and fabulous lingerie to drape all over myself. It brings a tear to my eye! But I can’t help myself... And it’s the same with boys.
But then the other day I realised something about unrequited love... It’s best just to walk that shit off and find someone or something else you’re excited about. If it drives you crazy then why put yourself through that stuff, eh? Perhaps you like ice cream, I mean you REALLY like ice cream but your ice cream man friend won’t give you any... Well maybe he’s got a good reason. Like it would cut into his profits. Or he’s promised it to someone else. Maybe he still likes you as a friend and still wants to hang out with you... While it might be reasonable from his point of view, it still drives you crazy to be with him. So just don’t hang out with him. Don’t go to Liberty’s and don’t put yourself through that sort of temptation. So what? You only like ice cream? You only like overpriced designer label shit? You only like him? So it’s ice cream/Vivienne Westwood/him or nothing? Don’t be an asshole. Learn to love doughnuts.
And so I walked out of Liberty’s and treated myself to some lingerie from Marks and Spencers, I deleted his number and I went to Krispy Kremes. And that’s how I learnt how to love doughnuts. 

Friday, 25 February 2011

Sexual tension.

Ahhh sexual tension. One of my favourite friends. Making food shopping, friendship and late night meetings with your dissertation supervisor all the more exciting (oh no, that’s just me?)
The best thing about sexual tension is the excruciating build up and wait. Nearly as exciting as the four months run up to Christmas. However, to the guy walking down the street asking me “what was I on”... (a bench) I’m afraid that’s no way to get this chicken roosting. Use some charm, flutter those eyelashes at me and for heaven’s sake please try address me by my name or something other than “girl”.
In a club... When that guy is rubbing his junk all up on your groin let me assure you that it is not sexual tension flowing through your body that you’re feeling. In my experience it’s probably rohypnol. Now the feelings are similar but the results may vary so please try and watch your drinks, ladies.

But on a serious and more politically correct note (I always find rohypnol jokes are often hard to swallow... get it... hmmm) anyway, half of the excitement about attraction and crushes and sexual tension is that build up and anything less than a good couple of weeks just won’t do it for me! I want their touch to bring shivers and their mere thought to force me to bite my lip to stop a smile from spreading across my face!

Take that friend you wait five years of “will they won’t they” and denying that there is any “spark” between you. Five years of girlfriends, boyfriends and setting each other up. Of accidently brushing each others’ hands or “accidently” leaning over the table with your top button wide open and your bust fit to burst. (it wasn’t accidental and it wasn’t successful unfortunately!) That is a case of ultimate sexual tension and the results will be just as good as the wait...
Until you start sleeping with each other more regularly and then you suddenly find yourself in some sort of relationship... And so... you stop taking each other’s calls and build up that sexual tension again for another 5 years.

You see when you have sex it can kind of kill that tension and I end up thinking about whether I have enough ‘Surf’ powder to do my next wash or whether I put the cat out. Well I think it gets killed if after you have your wicked way there are no residual feelings left to keep that sexual tension going. I’m Columbus and I’ve conquered the new world but now I’m a bit bored and kind of miss my lasagne.
So next time you’re leaning over the fruit shelves in Sainsbury’s you could be the next victim of the man across the aisle leering at your melons. But for your sake, I hope not.