As expected, the journey was somewhat okay and the carrying of things was miserable. I returned to London to find it pissing down with rain. Caught an easybus back to the city (as I think we can all agree that Stansted is by no means London proper) and was sat behind a newly reunited couple who were so ecstatic to see each other that their 90 minutes make out session gave way to frequent groans best not aired in public and bouts of fervent dry humping. It was decidedly awful and I had to get the hell away from them and change my seat 30 minutes into the journey, which proved tricky when being driven down the motorway at breakneck speed in a vehicle with an alarmingly high centre of gravity and a cackling, mad Polish driver at the wheel. Anyway, arrived back in town, dropped my bags off, put on a pair of decent shoes and went to work. Electricity Showrooms has a light up dance floor that I love more than one really should love a dance floor and in all honesty it's a fun, easy set..... despite being a sometimes lengthy 6 hours long. Saturday was a similar scene. Only this time, on the way to work, somewhere near Elephant and Castle the bus driver took a wrong turn. Yes. A bus. Took a wrong turn. The bus driver, quick to realise his mistake, rectified the situation by doing a hair raising three point turn on a none too wide side street and emerged (miraculously) unscathed on the correct route.
Miss Trouble and I played at Catch on Saturday night (which, we realised, is our longest standing residency - the best part of FIVE YEARS) where it was full to the brim of Shoreditch tourists, hipsters and hipster tourists. Catch is a bit of an endearing disaster that somehow keeps itself alive and packed to the gills every night despite mediocre alcohol, awful DJ equipment that frequently fucks out mid set and a very bizarre dance floor/bar set up. Every time I play there I veer wildly between love and loathe, and at least once a set I decide I am going to pack it in; that the stupid equipment that scratches my cds, the needles that lose grip and skate across my vinyl if people jump really hard next to the booth (Beastie boys is dangerous territory here), the almost criminally low pay and the ever dwindling alcohol allowance can go fuck themselves. But then, somehow, I never do. I don't know if it's the weird people who come and shake your hand at the end of the set, or the kids who get so excited when they hear certain song they leap onto the guard rails and dance, one foot on a table, one foot one a rail, several feet up in the air, or the fact that after 5 years and a lot of moving around, it's pretty much the closest to a living room I have. So Catch happened. As it always does.
I then waited for the night bus. For an hour. In the rain.
When it arrived, someone had vomited on the floor.
Oh London.
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