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Alternate title: How to totally live your life.

I hadn’t been out in London for a while and to be honest with you, Dear Diary, I hold the Olympics responsible.  There’s something about the thought of touching commoners and tourists all in one go that’s left me feeling rather cold on going out. Couple that with the fact that every single day TFL (the London Underground, my international readers) sends me updates on “The Central line is broken! The Piccadilly line is overrun by sewage! The Jubilee line has ceased to exist – we’re not sure how or why, or when it will be coming back. Ta!” –  I’m sure you can see why I have preferred EasyJet flights from Gatwish-you’d-just-kill-me Airport to navigating the bloody London Olympics.

Anyway, I’m digressing more than usual due to a banging hangover (see how much your readership means to me?) after attending the worst-organized fashion show in the history of EVER last night in a tragic little Mayfair club that considers itself a hotspot.  Hot with who or what I simply can’t imagine, but around me developed a Quality Street selection of the most chavvy, dire individuals ever to flaunt Primark chic.

The club? Aura. (I know. Can you barf puke, or is that an oxymoron on some level?) The club smells of an airport bathroom (broken dreams and tragic no-one-caring, air freshener and urine), has double toilets in the ladies’ room (all the better to feed the in-house dealer’s easy pickings on sad brokedown ho’s, no doubt –  I imagine its much easier to share a £90.00 bag of ground up baby laxative and spearmint polos in a double stall without the hassle of having to pretend security gives a toss), and a doorman who, despite seeing my name on the list for a work function demanded ID (bless.) and when I had none, pretended my bank card was a driver’s license, and made a big show of trying to scratch off my chip. CCTV coverage must be reviewed pretty frequently.

So here’s how not to have a fashion show, promoters.  In a club.  With no runway. With no rehearsal whatsoever.  With models paid in aforementioned baby laxative/polo combo.  Oh, and make sure your emcee has no previous public speaking experience and says things like “This fashionable look is made from a PLASTIC TABLECLOTH”, “This outfit is made from 48 million PLASTIC STRAWS and symbolizes horseback riding” while a 50p stock-audio soundtrack of galloping interjects to further hammer home the point the entire audience would all rather have missed.  Hilariously, as there was no runway, and the models did not have the modelling skills to model their way out of a wet paper bag, there was a lot of awkward “Oh, are…are you gonna walk left?  Oh, cause was also gonna walk left. No, no, you go… oh, me? I should go?  Oh okay…” which was kind of awesome if you, like me, enjoy cringeworthy train-wrecks.  The looks were actually kind of cool, but the whole thing being a total shitshow massively undermined it.  And really, I totally don’t need that emcee telling me that I can also use broken bits of shit to make stuff if I should find myself in the position to make stuff out of bits of shit – kind of humiliating for the designer who (weirdly) made stuff out of bits of shit… which kind of no one was caring about.

So, clearly, we turned to drinking to make the fashion stop.  Stupidly, I decided to drink mostly whatever was put in front of me (with the exception of some room temperature chardonnay – like that even happens in a “club”) and the whole thing got a bit out of hand.  Dancing happened, and I’m pretty certain me and this wee little Newcastle chick are like, best friends forever now.  Bracelets exchanged or wristbands or something. It all happened so fast.  A drinks-chick came around and was offering those nightclub shots which are utterly heinous and completely overpriced and generally contain glowsticks or something else (aside from rohypnol) designed to entice drunk idiots to buy them.  For some reason I was convinced that they were free and began handing them out.  Whoops.  Yeah.  Whatevs, it made the fashion stop, anyway.  After being bought shots by a the 6th-prize winner in a Tesco’s-sponsored Paul McCartney lookalike contest, who  cheekily announced, in that “if you’re up for it” kind of way, that he was staying at the Premier Inn on King’s Cross (cue bedroom eyes and also, side note: The Premier Inn of anything is £19.00/night. Just so you know), I announced it was beyond time to split.

Tube from Green Park – hilarious, involved a monkey puppet and some drunk Mexicans, as every good journey home really ought to.  However, the most enchanting part of the evening came from the actual re-entry into polite society, as I returned home thinking that my housemate was out, sneakily let in a stray cat, decided he was “dirty” and told him so, exchanged my dress for a pair of sweatpants and decided to make Kraft Macaroni topless.  The texts are too good not to share; it’d be criminal.

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