I woke up this morning, around 11.30, sleeping on Nals floor, still fully dressed. When Patrick, Nal and I had become aware that it was daytime, and the night had passed us by, we tried to piece together the fuzzy alcoholic memories, threading together shreds of evidence of what had happened to end up that Nal was in her bed, Patrick was on the sofa, and I'd woken up, fully clothed, under a duvet on the floor. Last night was National Pop League. People, such as work or my family, ask me where I go. I tell them its to NPL, and then I'm usually asked what it is, and where it is. When I explain its at the Woodside Social Club, and its a club night, the usually just shrug and say they've never heard of it. I try to explain, and fail to manage, that it is not like any ordinary club night. Nor is Winchester for that matter. Its not like the cheesy clubs I've been to, with balconies overlooking dancefloors, and lots of bars, and chrome tables and chairs around the edges, and lots of random beings. Its not like that, not to me. There is a dancefloor, right in the middle, with pits of darkness leading off to tables with cushioned chairs and long cushioned benches, deep pits where I sometimes don't like to tread, if I know my friends are in some other darkened corner. I don't know what I expect to find in those other corners, its sort of slightly alien, in a supernatural way. Its never been a typical club to me, its me going along, meeting with a bunch of friends and friendly faces, and sitting for a natter over a drink and a dance when a good song comes on. I think someone described it more as a giant party, only, theres no need to show up with anyone, becuase you know you'll see someone there that you know, so it takes away the stigma of turning up alone. Turning up on your own isn't something anyone seems to notice or remember, the showing up part is insignificant to the rest of the night. So last night... yes... last night. Something about pop pants, and not being pants that you expect to be pop. Something about people not talking to you when they're wearing a hat. A broken fan (as in the whirring cooling sort, rather than a shattered person who loves music), a few too many drinks, a bottle of wine and singing along loudly to music. "Two thousand men.. this is too long... two thousand men." "Walk me to the door, walk me to the door." We all got a bit wierd actually, but thats alright, cos its funny now, to us, and we can forgive ourselves for being arses. Patrick and I decided to go for a walk in the park, stopping at Queens Cafe, while Nal recovered from her hangover. The day has flitted away from our hands. Theres a gig tonight, we'll probably drag our sorry bodies along to. There, hope that helps fill a lost void of posting. Love idles xx ===== http://groups.yahoo.com/group/corduroysmoke/ starting playground gossip and passing notes __________________________________ Do you Yahoo!? Yahoo! SiteBuilder - Free, easy-to-use web site design software http://sitebuilder.yahoo.com +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+ +---+ Brought to you by the Sinister mailing list +---+ To send to the list mail sinister@missprint.org. To unsubscribe send "unsubscribe sinister" or "unsubscribe sinister-digest" to majordomo@missprint.org. WWW: http://www.missprint.org/sinister +-+ "sinsietr is a bit freaky" - stuart david, looper +-+ +-+ "legion of bedroom saddo devotees" "peculiarly deranged fanbase" +-+ +-+ "pasty-faced vegan geeks... and we LOST!" - NME April 2000 +-+ +-+ "frighteningly named Sinister List organisation" - NME May 2000 +-+ +-+ "sick posse of f**ked in the head psycho-fans" - NME June 2001 +-+ +-+ Nee, nee mun pish, chan pai dee kwa +-+ +-+ Snipp snapp snut, sa var sagan slut! +-+ +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+