Drifting in and out of consciousness (oxfordhacker) wrote,
Drifting in and out of consciousness

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Sorted [v 1.1]

Went to OUSFG last night for silly games. Played a good few games of Werewolf, a game a found on the net whilst looking for something else entirely, and which we'd played at OUSFG before. Fun. Nothing like getting up a lynch mob to string someone up because they 'look a bit pink', or 'aren't being as obnoxious as normal' (both actual reasons.) Play it with your friends, assuming you have 9 or so, and can be arsed.

Went clubbing afterwards, as I'd promised yesterday. The cast: me, and three skinny pretty-boys from OUSFG, Mike, Niall and Mr. Thomas ~A Anderson. The venue: Latino's, possibly the smallest (maybe second smallest, after DTM's) club in Oxford, and in many ways an absolute hole. However, it is also the site of the (now sadly only fortnightly) Oxford University Independent Music Society club night, known affectionately as 'Panic'. Whilst there last night I suffered the disturbing realisation that I first went to this night in 1995, EIGHT YEARS ago. And they were still playing some of the same songs, popular indie in England having died something of a death (or, we can but hope, simply lapsed into a coma). And don't talk to me about Coldplay [LJ spelling suggestion: Clitoral] or the Stereophonics or their ilk, thank you. Amongst their multitudinous faults, you can't dance to the fuckers.

So, given that as my non-drinking resolution was intended solely to prevent me getting drunk, and I was clubbing after all, I decided to indulge in a pint of Stella. Being a generous kind of guy, and the wage-earner of our party (the rest being students), I bought double vodkas for Mike and Tom (Niall doesn't drink), little realising that the bonds of manly obligation would chafe them into returning the favour. Ah well. Still, one pint of lager and two double vodkas doesn't count as drunk, as far as I'm concerned. I can remember the whole night anyway (even going home), and that's what matters.

It is worth noting that vodka is the tipple of choice at Latino's because it's a quid a shot, and all the other drinks are somewhat pricier. However, one sip of the stuff removes any mystery as to how they afford to offer it so cheaply.
Richie: But Eddie, how did you get so drunk on £1.25?
Eddie: There was a sale on at the chemist's. Old Spice, 25p a bottle.

Still, drinking barely drinkable alcohol and bouncing around to top tunes is the whole point of indie nights in general, and Latino's in particular. Notable moments:
- All four of us going completely mental to 'Sabotage', by the Beastie Boys, including a spirited attempt by Tom to turn us into a sort of four-man mosh pit.
- So much dry ice that you could hardly see your hand in front of your face, at times.
- Playing with Tom's free ultraviolet anti-burglar pen which is intended to write your post-code onto your valuables so they can be identified by the police, but works just as well for writing things across your knuckles so they fluoresce under the club night whilst you wave you hands like you just don't care. Mike chose hardy perenials 'Love' and 'Hate' (lent new poignancy by the messiness of his love-life), Tom's 'Shit' and 'Rock' allowed instant one-fist reviews of each track, whilst I opted for the cryptic 'Left' and 'Left'.
- Dissolving Mini Extra-Strong Mints in the vodka to improve it (limited success).
- Ash's 'Girl From Mars', the only track to which I have pulled a stranger in a club (ahhh, nostalgia.)
- The last half-hour, which featured a lovely blonde DJ playing what was either a fantastic set or a massive ironic piss-take, including 'Out Of Space' by the Prodigy (occasioning more maniacal dancing in all), along with some tracks perhaps better left forgotten such as 'Trip to Trumpton' (sampling the Trumpton theme-tune, of course), something that I believe was called 'Sesam-E Street' (guess the sample there), and the classic 'Ebenezer Goode' by those cheeky Shamen boys (to think, the first time I heard that, I had no idea that a chorus of shouting 'Eezer Goode, Eezer Goode' might have some sort of hidden pro-drugs message.)
- Me and Mike wandering up to the president and saying "Can we be DJs? We'd be way better than those fuckers playing tonight." "Except the blonde girl." "Yes. She was lovely." So, if they were able to read our scribbled email addresses, Panic could soon be thrilling to the inimitable stylin' of Mixmaster Mike and DJ Al X. Or something.

Left tired and happy, walking back with Mike, which gave him an opportunity to give a slightly drunken update on his funny-if-you're-not-actually-involved social life, which is verging on the sit-comesque, or even (shudder) Ally McBealitude.

And I got into work on time today. Admittedly, I then spent the morning doing IQ tests with an unhealthy fascination with garish unfolded shapes (IQ: 161 - 'profoundly gifted', since you ask). Still I got some work done this afternoon. Maybe I will still have a job in a fortnight, after all...

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