Hangover free, caught the Mayweather fight cause the satellite was crispy
After spending far too many Sunday Mornings lying in bed…who am I kidding, Sunday afternoons in bed feeling sorry for myself and letting my hangover get the better of me. I decided it would be time to go on a detox, no more drinking. I’ve said that a few times only to be sat in the pub by Tuesday, pint in hand looking forward to the weekend ahead and the ensuing litres of vodka that came with it. The odd tequila thrown in here or there to spice things up a bit. Fast forward to Sunday and there would be me again, curled up in bed, pillow over my head the mid-afternoon sun shining into my room, rinse and repeat.
Well this time it was a bit different. After a birthday weekend, that by describing it as a ‘messy one’ just wouldn’t do it any justice. I actually made it through to the Tuesday without visiting the pub. I planned my weekend with trepidation knowing that I’d be attempting to steer clear of alcohol; that’s no beers, ciders, vodkas, JDs, rums, tequilas, sambucas even wkds. What the fuck was I going to drink? I even it made through my Saturday at Rise Super Club alcohol free and for those of you wondering it turns out Redbull was my drink of choice. “Bad choice” you’re thinking right? “He’ll never be able to get to sleep” well your wrong the Mayweather fight was on so I’d need the extra caffeine, taurine, sugar and what ever else is in it to keep me up. #teammoney
Is it just me or does Justin Bieber look ridiculously out of place?
Having a sober night out is something that’s new to me, it was actually rather refreshing. Girls that I’d have talked to the weekend before and would have described to mates as ‘certified hotties’ over a fag in the smoking area were in fact…well, lets just leave it there, I’m sure you know where I’m going with this. Ahh the curse of the beer goggles.
What really stuck with me from my first weekend of sobriety in months was that some people just aren’t made for the mayfair/west end club scene. I’ve got loads of mates that rarely join me on my weekly nights in the west end. Preferring to lace up a pair of converse throw on a tshirt, maybe even a hoodie and hit the streets of Shoreditch.
However from time to time I get a call, tweet, whatsapp or a text (if its from Callum who hasn’t managed to keep hold of a phone for longer than a couple of months since school days and has resorted to using phones you’d expect to belong to either your grandmother or a drug dealer) telling me that they’ll be ‘getting on it’ with me with and a few of their friends on the weekend .
So they do. The converse white Ts and American apparel hoodies remain hanging in the closet, out come the shirts and shoes. Usually they’re off for a few drinks before hand and usually join me at the club I’m promoting around 11. They walk straight in hipster girls in hand, I leave them to it for next half hour or so whilst I make sure the rest of my guests are fine once that’s sorted we’d head to my table and start partying! Pretty smooth right?
So why then my sweeping statement about certain people not being made for the west end? Well I’m not to sure if that’s really the case, what I really don’t understand and perhaps never will is why people haven’t quite yet learned how to dress for the right occasion.
I often wear snapbacks, high tops, sunglasses IF THE SUNS OUT (or if I’m extremely hungover and have to leave the house). I don’t however wear snapbacks, high tops and sunglasses to clubs in particular if it’s the west end. At the risk of sounding obnoxious the three are definitely a no. Even my Shorebitch hunting friends on the streets of east London know this and are smart enough to throw on a shirt and pair of at the very least semi smart shoes.
Having decided to quite smoking along with the booze I found myself missing the smoking area and the ample opportunity for ‘smirting’ (flirting+smoking) and fresh air. I made my way downstairs, nicotine inhaler in hand, ready to unleash the banter on an unsuspecting girl puffing away on a fag. Once having made it through the huge Rise Super Club and down into the smoking area the smirting was the last thing on my mind. The queue for the first time was not would you’d expect amongst the girls in 5inch heels and dresses, the guys in shirts, skinny denim and shoes there was a large group out celebrating a birthday. Obviously they must not have realised that central London clubbing and their attire didn’t really go hand in hand.
If at this point I had been drunk I would have most likely guessed that the club had been teleported out of the west end. Undoubtedly they would be turned away at the door. I actually felt sorry for the door-staff, I could practically see the clogs in heads whirling away as they looked down the queue attempting to come up with a reason as to why they would be turning them away from the door.
I didn’t wait around to see or even to smirt, I’d recognized someone in the queue and couldn’t be arsed with the pursuing pr exercise that I would undoubtedly have been put through in attempting to tell them that white air force ones and sunglasses didn’t quite cut it no matter how fresh they were.
The morning after the night before was actually rather refreshing in that I was hangover free for the first time in months! There was no pounding headache, no dry mouth and no feeling sorry for myself although I most say I was feeling a tad groggy having stayed up far to late watching the fight.
I instinctively reached for my phone and began scrolling through my TL on twitter. I saw a stream of drunken tweets from the guy in the queue that I knew. A brief summation of his seven one hundred and forty character tweets would be “blah, blah shit club, rude staff, a few more blahs”. I just didn’t get it, a crisp white shirt and pair of shoes is all that it would have taken, hardly rocket science.
I could have easily tweeted this to him. I’m pretty sure he’d have just thought I was dickhead and up myself. Which is fair enough really I can be a bit of a dick from time to time.