The Drink Don't Work

Made the journey into Sodom and Gomorrah aka the West End on Saturday night for hangthedjs birthday drinks. As I tottered up the sleazy Tottenham Court Road, past the disgusting looking 'food' joints (kebab anyone), trainer shops and Ann Summers, I felt like turning back to go home and watch Celebrity Big Brother. My protestations of 'I'm not watching it' lasted all of ten minutes, until I saw MP George Galloway, the firebrand politician going in the house! After that, I knew I would be glued. Galloway, Dennis Rodman, Jodie 'why don't they love my untalented ass' Marsh and Michael Barrymore, this is shaping up to be car crash TV of the highest order. Galloway will be lucky to have a constituency to go back to.

Anyways it was cool to catch up with H and my other uni pals for a proper drink and a chat. However, I fear my new non-smoking stance has alienated me somewhat from the drinking experience. Or maybe it's just that smoking and drinking just go together so well, that it will take some getting used to. To make matters worse, I'd forgotten to wear my nicotine patch, and was fighting cravings every ten minutes after the first couple of drinks. But I was careful not to drink with complete abandon, I just had a very expensive Cosmopolitan (double of course) a few white wine spritzers, and then shared a bottle of white wine....Thankfully, I resisted the fag urge, and made the most of the dancefloor, politely shooing off the keen Asian boys and some other randy types trying to do the bump and grind with me. But did pass the time of day with handsome twenty-something Ghanaian Mani who complimented me on my locks. Mmmm.

I dislike West End bars and clubs because they're full of kids who think because they're wearing name-brand clothes, hair extensions and have a fake bag from New York, that they're the shit. Plus, the few black guys you see there ain't looking black women. And neither are the white men. It's cool for someone's birthday, but if it's my choice I'd rather go somewhere where niggas don't be looking through you like glass. Cos let's face it, if there's no chance of a little eye contact and a flirt, what's the point in going out?

Another thing I dislike is the 'women in the toilet' gig that most West End clubs have going on. As a black person I find it quite embarassing to see a black woman (never seen a white one yet) handing people tissues and soap for a tip. You can take pride in any work that you do, but I hate that this niche has somehow been created. And its only black people filling it. Not to mention that some of the women are damn rude. Once I left a woman a 50p tip, all she had done was hand me the tissue which she was guarding with her life, and she said to me, "is that all?". Who told her to say that. I picked up my 50p and said "that enough for you now".

But one night last month my principles had to take a back seat. At M's Christmas Ball the bar was hot, air con was not working properly, my deodorant was failing as my armpits went into perspiration overdrive. Not exactly the elegant look I was going for. I've never been happier to see the woman in the toilet that night and paid a £1 (buck and a half) for two squirts of deodorant. But soap and water could've stemmed the tide if need be.

The night flew by in a blur of post-uni catch up, dancing and drinking and ended abruptly when Cardiff Rob called Jamie a cunt, which kicked off a bit of limp-wristed punch-up which got them both thrown out. I went outside to see wha' gwaan. They were over it and had decided to go drinking in Holloway Road. At least neither of them had gone to their car to get a bucky (gun). If only all disputes could be resolved in this way. Over a civilised drink. Maybe the drink does work after all.