The other night I went out with David, back in town to work on his dissertation. The chosen venue (selected by some of his mates) was for some obscure reason B Bar. Otherwise known as the local meat market – hookup central – a venue I had never planned to visit.
Why? It is hard to accurately explain or describe. I’ve been to dive bars, glam bars, gay bars, every sort of elite or reckless establishment you could possibly imagine, and can say authoritatively that B Bar is the trashiest place I’ve ever been. In fact I would wager money there is nothing like it in America. The experience does not translate.
B Bar is brazenly, brilliantly Z list British – the Britain of Jade Goody, Kerry Katona, Celebrity Big Brother, and binge drinking. My impression was of a sea of fake breasts randomly attached to hair extensions and spray tanned bodies, actively and creepily ogled by bald blokes on the pull. There might have been pheromones in the air but it was impossible to know given the fog of cheap perfume and aftershave that made me sneeze over and over again.
David is a fine upstanding family man and also currently enslaved to a thesis, so he sat with his back to the room as we caught up and ignored the antics of the people we were meeting. Once the other academics absconded our remaining companion listed sideways in a fugue state of over-stimulation, nearly lodging himself in the cleavage of a girl at the next table.
We west coast refugees exited the building in a state of shock, only to be confronted by the red velvet ropes at the Fez. In a word, no. Local lore says what happens at the Fez stays at the Fez and as far as I’m concerned this translates to a permanent injunction against attendance.
It might appear from recent posts that my entire life is just one long party interspersed with the occasional boating adventure but that is far from the truth. The most exciting events of my week? I consulted a tax accountant about the returns that need to be filed in two different nations.
Then, check it: I interviewed immigration attorneys – and hired one. It is a sick truth that I was endlessly thrilled by these bureaucratic encounters. Next up: I need to account for every single day I’ve been away from the United Kingdom over the course of four years.
No problem. In fact, this is my favorite sort of task – how fun!