My final night in London is upon us, and Matt and I have been discussing the promise of the evening all day long. As a group, we should be 15 people strong, men and women, some Brit, some consultants from the US working abroad. We will swarm in like a force of nature, take over entire corners of bars, drink absinthe, and worship lasers at insane European discos. This didn't go exactly as planned, but still was more than enough for a very long post. Strap in.
So after a little down time at the hotel, and another delicious shower, we are due to meet up with the core group of guys at Shish, another middle eastern place in Hoxton Square. The food is not as good, as the night before, but the interior and atmosphere make for a perfect jumping off point for the night ahead. We are joined by six other guys, all ex-colleagues of Matt, who will be introduced as the focus of the story shifts to them. As a group, we are already loud, and, as the Kronenbourgs kept flowing over the course of the meal, I was becoming more and more talkative and energized. Carl, an American who uses profanity like I use prepositions, is similarly effusive, and the group on the whole is PRIMED. It was, overall, a night of drinking where you don't get slower and more dimwitted, but instead have this upward trajectory, becoming louder, more energized, and rowdier.
We finish eating, and step out into the street, all eight pairs of balls of us. There is the promise of more people turning up "within the hour," though they never do. The plan of attack is this: Hit up Hoxton Square, a park surrounded on all sides by pubs, and work our way around.
However, at this point, there are no women in the group. And though London doesn't seem to have the retarded "You can't come in because you're wearing sneakers" dress codes of NYC, there is one thing they're not fond of: Letting eight single dudes into their bar. We get blocked out of one place, and decide to head back to Jaguar Shoes (which everyone, at the time, is referring to as "Kill Bill Bar," due to the murals of the movie that used to be on the walls). Matt and I had been here the night before, in the basement, and been in awe. Tonight, though, was different...way more crowded, no drink service downstairs, and once again, no good setup, as we were all just packed in by the bar. The scene, as well, is not up to Carl's standards, who prefers blonde scandanavian supermodels to banged-n-booted hipster girls, so it is time again to move on.
A strip club is considered, though Carl points out that he's "not nearly fucking fucked up enough to go to a fucking strip club," and so we march onward, knowing our options are limited due to our male status. We proceed south on Kingland Road, and remember Juno, a bar that Matt and I had hit the night before, that featured a few old-school arcade machines, and generally a less crowded space. Our numbers are starting to dwindle already, though the spirit is still strong. I play a few games of 1942, after a few Germans get done playing, who jokingly referred to it as "a damned good year."
A quick note, from the couple of pubs I went to. There is almost always an upstairs and a downstairs, and the downstairs is typically better. This was true at Juno, where we ultimately ended up at the private birthday party of a total and complete stranger. The basement is narrow, with a bar at one end, a few chairs, and then a DJ and more seating and improvised dance floor at the other end. Everyone around is asking us who we know at the party (Answer? No one.) and our numbers are dwindling. Carl is there, shouting hilariously, Brendan, the youngest among us, is drunkenly questioning his career path, as I encourage him to retire at 24, and Hemant, reserved earlier in the evening, is quickly turning into a drunken Brit torando, much to the delight of everyone within earshot. Everything out of his mouth is an amazing combination of "mate," "shit," "bollocks," or "tosser," and is running around wearing my glasses and yelling at every girl in the room. I am thoroughly delighted with the company I am keeping, and after pint number 1000, am beginning to enter rocketship mode.
I go and sit with Matt in one of the torn up leather chairs along the dance floor. Before I can even realize what is happening, a whirlwind of a Brit girl is pulling me up out of my chair to dance with her. I attempt my little uncoordinated two-step, but this girl is completely out of hand, and I tell her so. Her first sentence to me is, "Oh, Christ, you're not an American are you?" Her second sentence is kissing me, smearing red lipstick on my lips. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Matt making his, "What in the hell is happening" face, a face I am familiar with. I am perplexed by this situation, in that I am engaged to be married and decidely NOT on the make. This feeling passes quickly, as I see this girl proceed to run the exact same number on every other man in the room. She disappears for a while, and is only spotted later on, screaming and drinking random half-empty drinks that she has found on the bar.
Things accelerate in my mind at this point, but I will do my best. At some point, we meet a group of Americans, one of whom was from Park Slope. The group at this point includes only Brendan, Hemant, Matt, and myself, and Matt is trying to persuade us all to go dancing, an idea I am not enthusiastic about but will certainly try. We head up to the street, Americans in tow. I am trying to convince them to come with us, offering to refund their cover charge if they are not delighted. Patrick, a kid I had not previously met, is on the street, and Hemant immediately calls him a "douche," much to the shock and awe of everyone around. I stroke Patrick's back and soothe him, assure him that Hemant is a perfectly upstanding fellow, while Matt is trying to find a minicab or two for us all to pile into.
Accelerate again, and all of a sudden, Matt has vanished. I am standing in the middle of London, I have no idea where I am or how to get back to my hotel, which I can only remember is "on Clerkenwell," talking to Brendan, wondering where Matt has gone. An attempted cell phone call reveals nothing. The Americans we were talking to have seen that we're not an act to be a part of, and have disappeared. Hemant is desperate to go and get takeaway, and cannot believe that Brendan and I are not hungry. We are very curious as to what's become of Matt. In my mind, I know that he could not have simply abandoned me, but Hemant's constant barrage of "It's SHIT, mate, Matt's fucking GONE, mate," becomes very persuasive after a few minutes, and so Brendan and I shrug and head off down the street, following the Hemant tornado. Hemant is kicking out at passing cars, telling Brendan and I that we don't know shit, and generally acting like an amazing human being.
We walk into a Chinese place about four blocks away, which, by the time I get in, has everyone working there yelling at Hemant, who is yelling back. I get some chicken and rice in a styrofoam tray, and the three of us step outside into a bus stop to eat our food. It's 3:30 in the morning, I am with two people I met only a few hours before, and I have no idea where I am. Hemant is taking turns, yelling at Brendan and I for not knowing how to get home, and throwing french fries at an attractive young lady standing near by. At that exact moment, Matt appears out of NOWHERE. None of us can believe that not only has he returned, but that he managed to find us a few blocks away from where we lost him. He had just been trying to find a cab, he explained, and all of a sudden we were gone. He brings candy bars, and everyone decides that it is time to head home. Everything is closed, Hemant is losing steam and vanishes, and we are done.
Brendan inexplicably decides to walk the two miles home, and Matt and I get in a cab, all the while discussing how dead sober we are. My second night has come to an end, and I collapse into bed.
Morning comes painfully early, and Matt rousts me and we head to King's Cross for an amazing breakfast...poached eggs on sourdough toast with more bacon. I swear, breakfast here will kill me. Matt and I are not very talkative, but it's not awkward silence by any means. We are simply talked out. It has been an intense several days, and we've both got to get on a plane and back to our lives. Cheers, London, you showed me a great time. Expect a full wrapup, photos, and overall impressions, next post.
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