Razorback

An interesting weekend, then. Friday evening, given the choice between David Cronenburg's Crash at the Price Charles, and the delights of evening beers in Camberwell, we opted for the latter (me and my friend Dunc). What started off as a fairly civilised premise rapidly became somewhat hazy however, by the time we reached 'The Funky Munky'.

I don't know about the 'Munky'. It's alright. For your two quid entry you bascially get to see lots of Camberwell folk guzzling alcohol, and get to hear pretty much all of Motown's back catalogue played back to back, interspersed with some Michael Jackson for good measure. Music that's guaranteed not to offend, but neither, however, get the pulse racing. Space is at something of a premium also, so one to avoid if you're of a claustraphobic disposition or wanted to indulge in some spontaneous cat-swinging.

We went in any event as my mate had arranged to meet a girl there, and he somehow, as he always does, managed to blag his way in for free while I paid. We got a table thankfully, and were shortly joined by the girl and her friend. The rest is something of a blur.. but lots of people bought me beer, that towards the end I couldn't actually be bothered drinking. I also had a few drags on a roll-up, and for those who don't know, sudden deep intakes of nicotine after not smoking for a bit aint actually that pleasant – a bit like the sensation of vertigo, which, crossed with being drunk, is even less life affirming. Imagine standing atop a flagpole at night, having inhaled poppers; it's nothing like that, but you get the idea.

Somehow though, I actually managed to pull, so I can only suppose she was as pie-eyed as me.

Saturday was a bit of a write off after that. I intended to go to see some art with my friend Will, but actually ended up staying in bed 'til two, rather than brave the wet rainy misery squinting at me through the curtains.

Saturday night, me Dunc and Ade went to the Thai house on Camberwell Chruch Street, which is nice, though, tip: when eating prawn crackers be wary of how much of the oily chilli shit they serve with it you actually ingest; if you actually want to taste anything for the next hour or so, of course.

Thence we progressed to Brick Lane and some some slightly odd Cafe-cum-barbecue-cum-bar-cum-club called 1001 I think. It was OK, though a slightly unlikely looking proposition.

Then we went to my friend Sam's night 'It's Bigger Than' at 93 Feet East, which I go to an inordinate amount, and is reliable fun, though it ends a bit abrubtly at one. This time one of the guys from Lemon Jelly was playing, who, in my opinion, looks a bit like Chris Finch from 'The Office', and wasn't actually all that amazing at all.

On a couple of occasions at that night I've ended up making a bit of a dick out of myself – weirdly, by mistaking my friend Dunc for someone else. On NYE 2004, while admittedly quite squiffy, I mistook someone at the bar with their back to me as him, and (don't ask me why) sidled up and bit them on the neck, only realising as my teeth made contact that it was in fact, a complete stranger.

A similar if less extreme example happened last night, when while passing someone who I thought was Dunc in the corridor chatting to a girl (again, back to me) I jabbed them them in the lower back then continued without looking round, only to step into the main room and see... Dunc. Sigh.

Anyway. Grabbed a salt-beef bagel after and headed home.

Well. Sunday was Sunday. Wactched some of 'Ace Ventura Pet Detective' where Jim Carrey's twittering rubber faced antics did actually make me laugh some. The movie highlight of the night has got to be the Aussie horror film 'Razorback', who's central conceit is the time honoured gambit of taking a creature, any creature, and making it either really big, or featuring loads of them, and imbueing them with malevolence and a taste for human flesh. In this instance it's a Razorback, which is kind of a wild boar (topical eh?) on the rampage in the outback. It aslo features a couple of nasty redneck types, who are the true villains of the piece, and a rugged outdoorsman type, transformed by hatred for Razorbacks after the huge one ate his grandson (top line: "Those Razorbacks destroyed everything he had") He's basically a landlocked equivalent of Robert Shaw's salty sea dog character in Jaws, and yes, he gets eaten.

Funnily enough my housemate had one of his colleagues, an Aussie guy, over, and they were getting pissed in the kitchen and generally being quite loud, so between the film and him I could basically hear Australians shouting in stereo.

Well, just got an appointment to get my fillings done on the 16th. Still quiet otherwise. Have registered as self employed, so should start chasing up potential work through other avenues. January is legendarily quiet though.. or maybe that's just me. Dole perhaps?

Anyway.. date on Wednesay evening, so we'll see how that goes. Interesting to see what the girl I met on Friday is like in a more sober light.