While we were in London, we stayed at my friend laura’s house. It was a really really cool house, and not lame or kitschy at all. It was really cold, because it was London at the start of winter, and also because the whole living area was just below street level. They had this tv that made everyone look green, and a clean kitchen that I think laura was the only one who cooked in it. One night we stayed there after we had been to a party nearby. The party was…very lame to be honest, full of annoying pretentious type people who talked about very boring things and didn’t wear interesting clothes or be funny or even dance to good music, they played annoying 30’s slapper (flapper) music all night, which ONE song might’ve been passable, but they played it the whole time, and once everyone had their go at doing a very simple version of the charleston with their hands all out and jazzy-like, pulling a hilarious over the top mime happy face, there really were no other moves you could do. Apart from putting on smells like teen spirit and totally bust their groove by moshing drunkenly into them and all their friends. So we weren’t the favourites, to say the least. But that was the high point of the night.
So anyway, we had to stay there, we’ll we certainly didn’t HAVE to, but laura was kind enough to offer since we were about five hundred thousand miles from where we were living. And in the morning, after three hours sleep, after nine bottles of wine, after a massive screaming match with Sam, after talking to too many annoying people, after sleeping in an ice chamber, after spewing in their toilet, after begging god to no avail to take me away from this hellish place, Sam and I had to get up and go have breakfast at the crack of dawn with his parents and his brother and his brother’s girlfriend. Who are, incidentally, all amazing people. But who all were, incidentally, on my list containing every other person on the planet, of people whose eyes I did not want to have to look into over a mediocre London vomit-fest excuse for a fuckin breakfast.
So I get to have a shower though. Well, not so much get to have one, as slunk into the shower to try and humanise myself as quickly as possible before anyone else has woken up. So the shower is at the top top floor of this house, I think there were four floors maybe. And it’s got this dodgy looking glass door. And when I opened this door, the door opened up into the actual shower, like the shower room was the shower, and the floor was slightly concave with a drain in the middle of it. And a toilet. And a window right beside the shower that won’t close, and is wide open. Over the whole grey windy freezing city. And the shower is four piddling dribbles, that barely coat my left shoulder blade. And the main door to the shower room keeps blowing open. And there’s no towels left in there for me to use. So I have to use my shirt. And even though my friend laura use to be a hairdresser, there are no nice hair products, and no hairdryer. And all my clothes got wet off the floor. And then to exacerbate the hollow depression of the whole experience I went and waited for the bus outside on a Sunday morning and there was no souls around just me and this bleak bleak morning and I listened to Elliott smith sing 2.45am, and hear him tell about splitting things back in two.
So that was an awful awful bathroom. That has been my only bathroom so far to get no stars whatsoever.
