Last night I went to the best club in the world, Whirl-y-gig. A wonderful happy dancy huggy evening of psychedelia in Kings Cross.
I was with Dawn, and at about half three she was off, she offered me a place to stay as WIllesden Green is a fucker to get to at night. But I refused, I knew that the tube started at half five. I’d hang on.
At four the club shut, I hung around chatting for as long as possible then meandered over to the station.
Like an idiot I realsied that the tube doens’t start at half five, but half seven.
I’d have to navigate the tricky night bus system of my part of London. I’d have to get to Baker Street or Oxford Circus. I walked in the vague Oxford Circus direction and waited to jump on the first bus that passed.
And hour later I arrived at Oxford Circus. A whole hour. Not a isngle bus had gone past in the right direction. My ankle was hurting again, I needed to pee and was now wide awake.
I thought at six on a sunday morning there must be some bar open in Soho. (Yes, I took a dversion from my route into Soho, not for dirty reason, but an hour of walking don’t half make you thirsty)
The only thing I could here was African drums. I knew this would be some uber cool party that would let someone in from the street just bcuase I had made the journey.
I got to the door of the building with the noises. I put my ear to the door. I realised that the African drums were actually just boilers.
There was no party.
I got the bus home
And slept.