Wednesday evening, and I still have a very odd taste in my mouth.
In a bid to remain flirtatious observers rather than fully-fledged participants in the fabulous debauchery that was last Saturday’s London Pride (flamboyant celebration of homosexuality, not patriotic ale), my friend Ben and I discovered that a few hours’ mindless Redbull consumption on the streets of Soho fucks you up far more than a hearty intake of vodka, and whatever was fueling the fidgeting queue to The George toilets.
Because Ben – a former advocate of all things indulgent - has hurled himself headfirst into an all new ’my body is a temple’ mentality, and my commute between Old Street and the bowels Kent is steadily turning me into the world’s most tired person, we decided to shun the evils of alcohol and other hedonistic delights, and instead opt for drinking in the jubilant atmosphere supplied by the billions of surrounding others, totally off their faces. This could have been a good idea – if Ben, in a moment of weakness, hadn’t suggested kick-starting our buzz-stealing with a couple of cans of Redbull.
I don’t know when two cans became four – I think around the time that speaking in a Welsh accent became stomach-achingly hilarious – but very soon our manic laughter was getting some rather odd looks (when considering the man standing next to us had bare pendulous breasts with beaded nipple-tassels, we must have been making quite a scene.)
Dancing round bins seemed like a tremendous idea during our fifth can, and half way through our seventh Saturday July 4th officially became the “best, just best best night ever”. Two sips into my ninth, as a deep burning sensation began to engulf my vital organs, I realised I could no longer swallow.
The next three hours became one shrieking but not unpleasant blur of naked Brazilians sporting white thongs and angel wings, slender Asian drag queens with gilded cheeks and 30-inch talons, an array of hairy backs, mindboggling piercings and many many excited nipples – all sweeping along the odd shell-shocked theatre goer who thought taking mum to see Jersey Boys at the Prince Edward on a sunny Saturday in July would be a relatively painless excursion.
Twilight came and cooled – though, if anything, the number of nipples was on the increase – and, as neon lights began flickering and the moon rose over Old Compton Street, I decided (amid thudding heart palpitations and grinding teeth) that it was time to collapse.
After a pathetic excuse for a sleep, I awoke with pupils the size of two pence pieces, flip-flops still sticking my black and beer-soaked feet, and a caffeine and sugar downer like you would not believe – plus the vague memory of having my face licked by a girl wearing nothing but a twister board. Good times.
