Wednesday, December 08, 2004

Diabolical Burgers

Yesterday, in honour of Miss. Hannah Sadler's astonishing longevity - 21 years occupying this world - her friend Fiona and our mutual friend Craig organised a secret birthday party designed to celebrate her impressive feat and formulate a suitable pension plan. Sadly, and unknown to us until it was too late to make a hasty and polite retreat, this party involved a visit to the most carefully and strenuously avoided of all Brighton nightspots - Creation.
For those of you fortunate enough to be ignorant of the place, Creation is a diabolical hellhole which shamelessly plays only the most utterly execrable of quasi-musical filth. As a consequence of its sado-masochistic insistence in playing only the absolute worst Rubbish'N'Boring known to mankind, it necessarily attracts a terrifyingly high audience of Extremotownies. Within ten seconds of entering the place, I was needlessly and arbitrarily shoved out of the way by one of the most pitiful examples, who decided to a) ignore the fact that I had kindly left at least seven feet of space to pass me by and b) the fact that, not actually being eight feet wide, this should have presented him with ample room to pass. He asserted his meagre masculine pride by picking on someone about half his height and about as likely to present him with a challenging physical fight as a malnourished baby woodlouse taking on the apocalypse. What a man.
Brushing myself down, I immediately had my arse pinched by what appeared to be two unfathomably large balloons on legs wearing a belt. Beginning to form doubts about my sanity and susceptibility to hallucinations, I swiftly moved away from this frightening entity and after exchanging pleasantries for a while with the birthday collective, moved on to the dance floor to await a good tune. This proved somewhat optimistic. The DJ's exultant declarations of 'cheeeeeeeeeeese coming your way!' proved to be a malicious and unfounded lie. But yes, I realise there is a certain sad and sardonic irony in proclaiming authentic cheddar to be on the way and then playing Usher, whose mastery of the jaw-droppingly uninspired and mind-numbingly excruciating three minute Rubbish'N'Boring uber-whine is absolute, or 50 Cent, the world's first talking cabbage-human hybrid:
50 CENT: Yo, I'm a P.I.M.P!
NORMAL PERSON: Pointless Idiotic Mindless Prat?
50 CENT: Dat's right man. I got some good sh*t going down dog. It's like my old song mixed with my newer song (which is exactly the same as my old song). I'm gonna call it 'Gettin' Tipsy In Da Club Wid My Bitches'. Den I'm gonna release 'Gettin' Tipsy In Da Club Wid My Bitches And My Homies', which is like my old sh*t mixed with my newer sh*t mixed with my new sh*t mixed with some sh*t to form some REALLY SH*TTY SH*T! Dat's da sh*t I'm talking about.
NORMAL PERSON: Er, do you ever talk about anything else? And can you complete a sentence without having to swear desperately like a brain dead townie struggling hopelessly against the tide of a coherent vocabulary consisting of more than four words?
50 CENT: No man, I'm street. And da street is sh*t.
However, repeated and dismal failure to play Livin' On Prayer, Sweet Child O' Mine, Bohemian Rhapsody and Growing On Me becomes swiftly unfunny. There's only so many times you can pretend to have impossibly bad taste and remain amusing, and the DJ would do well to bear this in mind. Me and Neil were forced to amuse ourselves in the absence of any musical entertainment by dominating the giant texting screen with pro-Essex anti-Brighton diatribes: 'Essex OWNS Brighton!'/'I'm not from Essex. Bloody well wish I was though.'/'If you're not from Essex, bow your head and leave quietly by the nearest exit'/'HAPPY ANNIVERSARY BROOKLYN AND CHARDONNAY! Essex OWNS Brighton!'. This was actually vaguely amusing at the time, which merely seeks to uphold my developing theory that Carlsberg combined with vodka and coke addles the mind's capacity for good humour.
Tonight my house is celebrating the end of term and onset of the Christmas period by attempting to successfully ingest 'giant breakfast burgers' at Tootsie's, these burgers being the result of an experiment designed to fit every disgustingly greasy and super-calorific substance imaginable that could be considered even remotely edible between two bread baps. I am confidently told that these burgers are so monstrously huge that it is physically impossible to successfully bite every component of the package simultaneously. I aim to prove that my capacious mouth is the exception to the rule. Bring it on!
Ed's Mood: Peachy
Ed's Incessant Auto-Repeat Musical Tip: Bon Jovi - Always

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