That said, last night's Duckie special, in the unfamiliar environs of The Eagle (formerly South Central, formerly Dukes), did exactly what it said on the tin. Key ingredient: The London Readers' Wifes, and thank the Lordy lords.
Crowd vibe was a bit office party if one works in an office populated by stocky, hairy men, beardily chic geeks and slightly mumsy secretarial types in their best glittery tops. Something a bit disorientating about hearing the Wifes' Favourite Record Of All Time then having a further hour and a half left to dance. And dance we did. After five minutes, we'd already heard more good tunes than we did last year.
I really need a working mini-camera; the Big Camera is okay but occasionally temperamental with its flash in Duckie-type settings, insisting the mechanism is blocked then working fine the next day. It's also a bit of a pain to dance with, so this time I checked it into the cloakroom after a few shots. Blurry but quite atmospheric, I reckon. Here's a handful:
(Something about that last one reminds me a little of Blake's Ghost of a Flea.)
My head's not too sore, considering; a full English breakfast at the (packed with hungover gayers) Oval Lounge helped. Vague thoughts of detox will have to wait.
Only regret: despite 'phoning four times in quick succession yesterday, Galasheila never left a message. I feel abandoned.
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