lupestripe | Kill It On The Floor

The Oxford and Cambridge Club is at 71 Pall Mall and in the year 1875. Think Jules Verne and Philius Fogg and you won't go far wrong. My ex- girlfriend is a member of said institution and last night invited 12 of her closest friends to partake in a banquet in the sumptuous chandelier lit dining hall.

The champagne reception was in a room which felt like I was trapped in a Walls Vienetta. Gold trim was everywhere and as the guests arrived, all in black tie, we greeted all of them in a cordial manner. I knew three well, two others less well and seven not at all. My ex passed me a copy of Cosmopolitan - complementary reading at the club - and I was disappointed to discover the lack of cock on show where there were pics of hunky men. I made a note of it - and also became the first person to say the c word in polite society. Well probably not. Anyway, the room was massive, with a large bay window looking out on to rain soaked Pall Mall. This had drenched us too and I had to spend time drying myself off in the squash courts' changing rooms.

The banquet was brilliant, in a hall which was large and a homely red colour. Portraits of mysterious men adorned the walls and the toilets were so beneath contempt, the doors to them weren't even labelled. Humorous cartoons adorned the top of the urinals. The service was a bit poor though. I had a terrine starter, roast leg of lamb main and cheeseboard dessert. With unlimited cheese. This went well with the port which was offered, along with the convivial conversation amongst friends old and new. At dessert, we had to move places to meet new people and I believe everyone had a good time. We were there a good five hours and although conversation was sometimes difficult, generally things went well.

Sadly, this is where it ended as my ex insisted on going clubbing. My friends and I merely fancied a nightcap at a jazz or blues bar but as she had generously paid for the whole meal, we decided we should concord with her wishes. And rightly so, I feel.

This meant going into Soho and one of the 'trendy' clubs there. The first one barred us for having too flat shoes but we soon found a place equally as ghastly. £20 entry, £6 a bottle of beer (Asahi mind so it was qwaletee) and bohemian men called Dave and glam girls named Chantelle as far as the eye could see. Two blonde ladies were pole dancing on podiums in one corner which was about as appealing as a bucket of sick. It was an RnB club, my least favourite form of music after misogyny, and I was so tired I really struggled (an 18 hour day, 5 hours sleep, a 7am start and a three course meal tends to do that). The heat in that place was horrendous un da choons were no phat man, just da usual bizzle. £20 was hardly warranted - some RnB is fine but this stuff was certainly not to my tastes. Plus I don't like dancing or people jostling me, which is probably why I haven't been clubbing in about four years. The firework cocktails were fun but after an hour, a friend and I had had enough so we wandered around Carnaby Street until the others were done. Thankfully that wasn't too long and we were soon home to our grateful sofa beds.

Posted via LiveJournal app for iPhone.