I have an awesome friend whom I love dearly but only get to see once in a while. She lives on the outskirts of London (actually she lives in Essex, but my friend is very quick to point out that as her home is on the Tube line then it can still be classed as London) so for her birthday she organised a little outing.
Get this: We were going in a limo. To London West End . To a private booth in some swanky club. Score!
So, one Saturday afternoon I hopped onto the train from my home and travelled the hour and a half through charming countryside down to smelly St Pancras Intl, and then negotiated my way through the network of mole tunnels that is the London Underground to her house. Every time I go to see her (ok, I’ll admit this is only the 2nd time I’ve been to see her since she moved to this house) there is some kind of major repair work going on in the Underground system. So I usually spend a fair amount of time gawping at the brightly coloured squiggles on the walls trying to figure out how to get onto the red line whilst avoiding the yellow line, pink line, dark red line, blue line and black line. Then I realise that what I thought was the London Underground map is actually some kid’s graffiti mixed with cracks in the wall. When you are travelling on your own, and you realise you’ve just done something hopelessly stupid and embarrassing, there is really only one thing you can do: Adopt a nonchalant expression and look like you knew what you were doing all along.
So, after shuffling a few yards to the left so that I was facing an actual map of the Underground, I worked out how to zig-zag across London
Ah! Sweet relief! A good chat, a lengthy gossip, some hearty giggles and a seriously in-depth discussion of the merits of fake-tanning one’s legs later, and I had forgotten all about how close my head had to be to that biker’s armpit for the train’s carriage doors to close. Of course, being of the fairer sex, we had to rush around in order to get ready for when the limo was due to arrive because we spent far too much time chin-wagging. However, all the rushing around was well worth it. The birthday girl looked absolutely stunning (as usual), our other friend looked fabulous in her classic little black dress, and I was feeling gorgeous in my favourite sparkly shoes. The boys brushed up well too.
We all clambered into the white stretch limo, and made “oooh, ahhh!” noises at the mirrors on the ceiling, the shaped leather seats and the two bottles of champagne that were to be at our disposal for the ride into London Town. Needless to say we had a jolly old time trying to sip champagne whilst the moody driver steered the limo around roundabouts and corners, but we all had an excellent time. When we reached the club the other two ladies and I did our best to exit the limo whilst not “doing a Britney Spears” and showing our undergarments. The boys assured us we were successful in our endeavours.
So we pranced our way along the pavement and into the club. After some of us were asked for I.D. at the door, we were all told where our booth was. We all slid into the comfy seats with big grins as we watched a fat ginger man trying desperately to dance with a gorgeous brunette that had legs up to her elbows. After a few minutes, we ladies decided to go the bar. We decided to share a bottle of wine between us, so I asked the baldy barman for a bottle of Pinot Grigio.
“Got any I.D.?” he said.
“No I haven’t,” I replied. “I didn’t think to bring it. We have a private booth booked.”
The Michael Stipe wannabe then threw his hands up in the air and declared that I would have to leave as he couldn’t serve me.
“Well I didn’t bring I.D. either,” said the birthday girl. “I booked a booth because it’s my birthday.”
After saying something about having to speak to the manager, the barman disappeared, leaving us to look at each other with a mixture of worry and disbelief. It turned out that everyone except me and the birthday girl had brought I.D. with them, which proved they were all 23 and over. The manager (who incidentally looked so young that I doubt he would be allowed on any big-kid rides at Alton Towers
Where to go? What do to? The limo wasn’t booked to return until 2am , so we set off in search of another club that was not run by neo-Nazis. But, lo and behold! Some recent crackdown on underage drinking meant that absolutely no club in the West End were letting anyone in without checking for I.D. first at the door. I’m not exactly sure how long we walked around for, but it was long enough for me to lose feeling in my extremities.
Eventually one of us had the idea to go to TGI Fridays. So we made our way there with the help of a map on some iBlackBerryPalmTop gadget owned by one of the fellas, and were thankfully let in to the bar area of the restaurant with no questions asked. Of course, we made sure the boys went to the bar for us every time we ran dry!
Now, I’ll admit that wandering around in the cold wasn’t that much fun, but the company was lovely. I can’t think of a more fun group of people I would like to be with if I was ever shivering and in desperate need for a raspberry daiquiri. So what if my lips were turning blue? I got to hear anecdotes from one of the boys who “accidentally” wandered into a strip club in search of a sink to wash his hands in. You don’t get gems like that every day!
So once in TGI’s we had pretty much forgotten about the lack of private booth and were laughing and joking around. We had cocktails that looked more like desserts and shots that tasted like paint stripper – what more could you ask for? Oh yes, and I’m still trying to blank out the memory of me slipping over on their shiny floor and falling flat on my arse, but never mind. I’m sure nobody saw. Much.
The moral of the story? ALWAYS bring I.D. with you. And if you are going to be stuck in London London
