Me and Dove nearly got kicked out of Tasha's yesterday.
I was drinking Hawaiian Coladas, and Dove went an ordered an ice coffee. The Hawaiian Coladas were going down like homesick moles; and Dove is allergic, if not dangerously, to coffee.
See, the point of this weekend was pure, basic indulgent European-like hedonism.
I'm pining for some time in France at the moment. To top it off, I'm reading about France currently, through the medium of a fabulous new book.
The book is only exacerbating the feeling of unease and loneliness.
So in light of this, the weekend consisted of: Reading my book at a busy café with ginormous sunglasses on [Like Catherine deNeuve]; Champagne with Klo. On her balcony [Champagne is from France...and balconies are very frou frou]; Massage and facial [with my amazing friend Dockers]; French finger foods.
Indulgent European-like hedonism duly came to fruition. In between seeing my best friends, in order to enact some of my European rituals with other people.
Tasha's. Atholl Square. Yesterday.
Peas: What the fuck are you doing?
Dove: Putting sugar into my coffee, fuckface.
Peas: Are you fucking crazy, you nutsack? Jesus, give me that. Now. You know what happens when you drink coffee. God.
[she takes a few sips]
Dove: Oh Jesus, it feels like I just did 7 grams of coke.
Peas: Cry me a fucking river. Live with it.
By now I'd klapped two coladas, and although it wasn't Frenchie-Wenchie cognac, it certainly did the trick out in the sun.
Peas: [Leaning to next table, holding up the frappuccino] Hey there Mister? Do you want this?
Bald dude: What?
Peas: I said do you want this? My retarded friend thought it would be funny to get completely fucked up on coffee, and now she's bouncing everywhere and, well, maybe you want the rest?
Bald dude: Yeah....sure, ok.
Dove: She just got released from a mental asylum. Give me my coffee back, asshole.
Peas: Please excuse her, it's the coffee talking.
Bald dude: You two alright?
Dove: [Leaning forward whispering to me] Dude.
He's staring at us and not stopping and I think the waiter just went into the restaurant and informed everyone that we've escaped from a mental asylum and I'm not feeling so good and I also can't stop talking and oh my Christ he's staring at me I think I'm going to flip out.
Peas: Fucking pipe down and focus on the salt and pepper shakers.
Say...do you think paedophiles live in Paris as much as they do in Belgium?
Dove: Jesus. Keep the kiddie-fiddler talk down. Now they really think we're crazy.
Peas: Dude. If you ever drink coffee near me again in order to get caffeined up to the eyeballs, I'll chop you up into little pieces...and feed you to the dogs.
Waiter:...uh, can I take your order?
Peas: The biggest piece of seared Norwegian salmon you have, please.
Waiter: How would you like that?
Peas: OK listen here Mister, and listen carefully. Don't fuck this up for me. I'd like the full-on seared Norwegian salmon, medium rare. With all the Norwegian trimmings.
I want it so that the middle is completely rare and the fish flakes off like little raw rose petals, served with a ladle of garlic. You got that?
Dove: Sorry, she just got out of a mental asylum yesterday.
Peas: Do you mind? Get your shit together. Get. Your. Shit. Together.
Waiter: Can I ask you to keep it down? The other table left because they complained that you two were talking about sexually explicit material rather loudly.
Dove: Sorry she just escaped from a mental asylum, it wasn't me.
Peas: Sorry my friend here is on drugs. Ignore her. God I love you.
Dove: I fucking love you too. PS: I bought a hip hop tracksuit.
Chester and I have decided to start hip hop classes together.
After only dreaming about it for the last fucking century, finally, it's going to happen:
I'm going to dance like Britney Spears.
I am going to become Jennifer Lopez. Oh my GOD, they're going to teach me how to freestyle like Justin Trousersnake.
Although I have a sneaky suspicion that Ches has a fuckload more rhythm than I do.
I suppose I could always impress the instructor with my flawless version of the Greek Zorba Dance. (“I was team leader you know.”)
Once we have the moves perfectly, all of our friends are going to want to be Chester and I.
We'll be namedropped at flashy events and business lunches.
I'm going to do the splits and not instantly snap my tendons in half.
We'll be hired to entertain the masses at parties.
Dr Dre is going to be my muse.