Precipitation and Cocktails
Strolling around Parliament Square yesterday I see that the tented village on the green has expanded, no doubt some revellers from Glasto stopping off for some shopping at Harvey Nicks before buggering off home. If these types want to treat the place like a camp site, then surely the council should too.
If a farmer expects to charge campers a tenner a night to camp in a soggy field where facilities begin and end with a stand pipe and which still shows signs of its being a location of the pyre formally known as his herd until the foot n’ mouth epidemic, then I think that a hundred quid a night is a reasonable price to charge campers in London.
Either that or re-designate their tents as ‘facilities for use by the public’. Believe me, those campers in the Blair Witch Project would be considered having got off lightly compared to some pissed-up reveller crashing into a camper’s tent in the wee small hours after several cocktails too many and thinking the place was a superloo.
It started to rain as Fat Andy and I wandered round the Square on our way to cocktails, I was minded to dodge under canvas and wait it out but Andy did the impossible and flagged down a cab for hire. Ten minutes later we were sitting in the Royal Festival Hall’s new bar ‘Skylon’, watching ballet dancers doing their warm-ups, disconcerted that the waitresses were wearing retro sci-fi uniforms and deciding which exotic beer to try first.
There were cocktails that night, mixed with verve and style in the unlikely setting of a pub. It looked like the sort of place where they consider a lager top to be a cocktail but this place had a shaker, tequila and an impassioned bar staff.
After that things got a bit hazy, but suffice to say it was a last train home situation and a breakfast this morning of paracetamol and temperance thoughts.
If a farmer expects to charge campers a tenner a night to camp in a soggy field where facilities begin and end with a stand pipe and which still shows signs of its being a location of the pyre formally known as his herd until the foot n’ mouth epidemic, then I think that a hundred quid a night is a reasonable price to charge campers in London.
Either that or re-designate their tents as ‘facilities for use by the public’. Believe me, those campers in the Blair Witch Project would be considered having got off lightly compared to some pissed-up reveller crashing into a camper’s tent in the wee small hours after several cocktails too many and thinking the place was a superloo.
It started to rain as Fat Andy and I wandered round the Square on our way to cocktails, I was minded to dodge under canvas and wait it out but Andy did the impossible and flagged down a cab for hire. Ten minutes later we were sitting in the Royal Festival Hall’s new bar ‘Skylon’, watching ballet dancers doing their warm-ups, disconcerted that the waitresses were wearing retro sci-fi uniforms and deciding which exotic beer to try first.
There were cocktails that night, mixed with verve and style in the unlikely setting of a pub. It looked like the sort of place where they consider a lager top to be a cocktail but this place had a shaker, tequila and an impassioned bar staff.
After that things got a bit hazy, but suffice to say it was a last train home situation and a breakfast this morning of paracetamol and temperance thoughts.
Labels: Alcohol, Camping, Cocktails, London, Protesters, Skylon, South Bank
1 Comments:
What's that old saying? "Alcoholics Anonymous is for Quitters!"....sounds like you can just chalk it up to another night of fun. Today you can be grateful for things like water, headache medicine, and your liver.
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