I haven't been able to muster any thoughts to post. No ideas at all. There's been a slight depression hanging over me in a mild way only affecting my blog. I've still been managing to get out of bed and perform my other daily routines. Which is lucky as my impact on the world is very important and the high levels of customer service that the jolly clientelle from B&Q have just got used to can't been seen to faulter.
Anyway enough of these weak excuses, I shall remind you of my promise of day one of The Limited Edition, that posts will be as fresh as the morning catch and so on......
It's been a while but I awoke this afternoon with an almighty hangover... Booze fueled and sickening... I felt so sick and needed to pee so badly that I had to think quickly to recall any embarrassing moments from the previous night. As the level of hungoverness would usually suggest at some point I had made a d*ck of myself. Fortunately I don't remember any particular moments of madness or any enthusiastic promises made to brand new aquaintances. So unless I'm reminded of an instance that I have no memory of, I got away with a good night intact.
We ended up in 4.2's and by no means was this decision made without my enthusiastic imput. I hadn't been there for almost three years. That occasion was the night the Ricky Charm worked it's magic on Miss Mora for the first time. Its the reasuring smell of vomit that you could always rely on.
The place however has had something of a make over. The DJ both had moved, the toilets where well lit, the lingering vomit smell had been reigned in, and last but not least the indie kids of the noughties would have looked more suited to a bleedin catwalk. It was shocking. The dingey dark corners of old had all gone, I didn't spot one parker, and not one "on the seventh day god made manchester" t-shirt. It knocked me a little and when I went for a wander to see if I could identify a familiar face my search returned no results. I went to the bar and to add insult to injury I was clearly significantly older than all the bar staff.
In any club I always have this feeling of being a little intimidated by the bar staff. It's like they have the power over whether or not your night goes well. Without exception if you end up getting on with a bar person, male or female then your night is guaranteed to be that little bit better. Although last night the intimidation I had memorised from 4.2's wasn't there. It wasn't important or necessary to impress my fellow clubbers and the mighty bar staff didn't have the look of a hundred boozey club nights in their eyes. I think it was the aging processes kicking in again. Not that I've been out on the tiles persistantly for the last few years but these wee nippers seemed comfort fresh, coiled and ready to jump out of the ground.
I wont be rushing back but its good to see the youngsters are breaking there city shoes in the same places and backed up by the same old dutch courage I found necessary when approaching the dance floor - Saturdays bar offer was vodbul (trademake) at a quid a go. (Reliable 42's!)
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