I went into The City to meet Adam from Capcom and my Maven buddy Matt Muir last night. It was a good time. We drank a boatload of rum and came up with ill ideas for the Street Fighter 25th anniversary celebrations, and I played Matt some of my LP3 demos. He did a lot of beaming and an actual LOL at one point, encouragingly at the right spot. I am really pleased with how the songs are coming out. They soundtracked my whole journey from Nu Olympia to The Pillars Of Hercules, and it was a deeply joyous time.
I will likely not surprise some of you that after we parted ways I ended up in a strip club. IT WAS A COMPLETE ACCIDENT, there was a bar next to my bus stop in Stratford and I thought, sheeee-it, my bus isn't for 20 minutes, I'll grab a drink. I didn't know it was a strip club. I thought it was an R n B joint. They frisked me like it was an airport on 912, charged me £4 and told me in no uncertain terms to take my hat off, but at no point was there any indication the place was a strip club. The place looked like the set of a 70s sci fi movie in a state of half-dress, all blue neon lighting and shiny poles and tubes and piles of wires pouring out of the walls like intestines. There were 5 people in there, two of whom were strippers and one of whom was a barman. One of the strippers said I looked like David Gwetta which I took as a terrible insult. "I am going to have to be honest with you young woman," I said, "But I don't think I will be having a dance." "Thank you for letting me know," she said, and immediately swung her bare arse off to the end of the bar where a tiny man in a windmill cap and bottle top spectacles who appeared to have been soaking in a bath for about a week bought her shots for half an hour, after which point she could barely stand, let alone "dance." I wonder if she told him he looked like Hans Moleman, because he did.
I walked home along the canal, next to the myraid Olympic stadia. The sky was a deep, cosmic, Kirbyesque purple. I made up a song, and sang it all the way home, so I wouldn't forget it.
Last time I ended up in a strip club by accident was down Shoreditch High street in the early naughties, as they are so lamely referred to these days. Me and P$ were looking for a place to play pool, and we found this bar called The White Horse that said it had a pool table. We should have known from name really. Anyway, we went in, bought some beers, and racked up eagerly. I was leaning in to take a shot when I glance up and see this beautiful vision sort of gliding towards me in a frilly neglige, holding out a glass beer mug. She was bathed in light, like an angel. I assumed for a second that I had died and gone to Valhalla, and sort of stared slack jawed as she drifted towards me in slow motion and put her face right next to mine, smiling... then shook the beer jar at me, enthusiastically. It was full of 20 pence pieces and pound coins. I then noticed, for the first time, the stage behind her, resplendent with Stripper Pole. I was crushed.