Breker on Friday.
What I love about Meat Market Fridays:
1) How when you smack a dude's ass, he says 'Do it again.'
2) How the Jaegerwagon flows endlessly into the night.
3) How when you run past someone and they say to their mate, 'Hey isn't that so-and-so's bird?' (No china, you're a couple of months too late on that one, where've you been, in the bottom of a beer glass this whole time?)
4) How it's so easy to make random mates. This dude sidles up to our table and starts telling me about how he plans to finance a low cost housing project. Pity he couldn't string a sentence together, and how when he asked for my number he didn't find it odd that '085 555 5555' was an obviously blatant lie.
What I don't miss about Meat Market Fridays:
1) The vomit underneath the bar counter (Whiskey Fest was good, was it?)
2) How you see someone you know, but can't get to them to say hello because you have to push past 8 million people.
3) How people sidle up to our table and stand about trying to talk to you, but cannot string a sentence together and yet plans to finance a low cost housing project.
I went to a proper black diamond party on Saturday afternoon with Doc. It was an Obama celebration bash, so we wore matching Obama t-shirts like real plonkers. Bless.
The party was held on an estate just outside of Sunninghill, where this amazingly modern mansion lay on this strip of land, that quite obviously won't be bought up for a while, thanks to this little thing called 'the recession.'
Some amazing guy put the Usher album on just for me.
'Peas,' said the host, 'you gonna eat some chicken or what? We have a lot of chicken here...you know how black people HATE chicken.'
'Peas: Hand me a breast, I love a good breast.'
It was a wonderfully chilled day, filled with gin and tonics.
Problem is I made the mistake of throwing out a few of my sociably-inept hip hop moves, and I'm not so sure that went down like Farmer Brown in Chinatown. I should probably stick to dancing in front of equally rhythmatically-challenged white people in future.
Bought a lot of underpants on Saturday afternoon, while on the mojito-train.
Some might call the following pair a portable ass cushioning device, some may call them Aunt Flo's bloomers. Others might call them a flamboyant poen doiley: I call them 'Fuck Yes.' Because of the potential of a broad-minded male specimen to say that very phrase on steering his eyeballs towards them.
Besides a couple of generic black thongs, I also bought one shit hot luminescent bra that makes my tits look like they have an erection.
My friends were great with random gifts this weekend. C2 bought me such a cool present: ethnic bling. Isn't it Blafrotastic? (Bling + African =geddit?)
And Big T bought me a red Moleskine diary for my South American trip. What a little biscuit. It says inside:
Name: Peas On Toast
Reward if found: 1 x blowjob (if you're hot)
The thoughts Peas On Toast, eccentric Esquiress, whilst travelling through South America. May lose my mind during the course of this diary due to father, but either way will try to keep a record of such dementia.
Otherwise all thoughts inspired by mojitos and caipirinhas, Latino men, Argentinian steak, local architecture, and a fuck off tan.