Father Christmas

Was woken by a combination of brain shattering sunshine penetrating through the curtains and my caffeine angel Jen far too early.  It was 11am and we had an appointment with Father Christmas.  At Harrods.  But not before I experienced how showers feel when there is absolutely no hot water left.  The perfect thing for a hangover.

Myself and Jen (still, by all accounts leaking alcohol out of our eyeballs, skin and breath) skated to the train station with her brother Chris and his girlfriend Mayyah.  Chris is a Christmas elf at Harrods.  He was carrying a bag containing nothing but wigs.

On route I ate a mint Aero in an attempt to firstly soak up some alcohol and second disguise my Vodka breath.   I didn’t want Father Christmas thinking I was a bad girl.  My Dad always told me I’d get a stocking full of ashes if I was naughty (and I remember one year considering being naughty just to find out what that was).

We arrive at Harrods and they let me in despite carrying last nights clothes in a Primark bag.  Being VIP’s we went straight in to see Father Christmas who showed us his invisible robin. We requested variously a My Little Pony Castle, some Sylvanian Families and seven puppies. He asked us if we’d like a photo.  The result is the above.  Not pictured are the brilliant badges and chocolate coins we also received.

Continued to wander round Harrods complaining about sore feet, dehydrated heads, people who can afford to pay £4,000 for a puppy and trying hard not to kill tourists.  Before wandering in a dazed stupor around Victoria bus station trying to remember where the hell the bus went from.  The drying out process begins here.  Merry Christmas.


Absolut Vodka

Saturday is something of a blur being that what happened was half a litre of Vodka and the latest night out since I was 19 (not including the two nights earlier this year when I just didn’t come home).

It was the night of the Choi Kwang Do Christmas party set in the dizzying heights of Morden (dizzying thanks to the strong smell of urine that hits you in the face as soon as you step off the tube).

Things that I am certain happened: I ate most of the buffet, I found out unrepeatable gossip, I danced to Kung Fu fighting rather hard, Jen played Little Boots far too much, Jen attempted to drag a black belt onto the dance floor and was tipped unceremoniously onto her bottom, amorous advances were laughed at and declined (and his girlfriend will be happy to hear that), people danced in a circle like they were st a school disco, people were dragged onto the dance floor by me and made to dance to Queen (I really am the coolest person you’ll ever meet), I fell asleep under a pile of coats waiting for Jen to stop chatting and dancing, I was hugged many times by my instructors, told I was thought a lot of and eventually fell into bed at 4am with a rather large headache.

Image credit: Mercedes Dayanara


Friday, dear God Friday.  The alarm went off and I peeled myself unhappily from the mattress, stuffed myself onto public transport next to a man who was clearly still drunk and headed to my university clinic.  To provide cheap and affordable healthcare to the masses.  With a hangover.  And five hours sleep.  And only six colleagues.  For eight patients.  All of which needed two students in consultation.  And the clinic supervisors were snowed in.  The lunatics were well and truly running the asylum.

But as one colleague was far more hungover than me (who was floating lack of sleep on an experimental sea of caffeine) I felt much better about the whole situation.  And only fell asleep on the floor once (and not during a consultation).

All patients were eventually sent off happy and medicated (as the supervisors finally skied in to join us).  Starbucks turnover was doubled and all tourists escaped a scalping during my journey home just for getting in my way.  Or breathing too loudly.  Mark that one up for a success I think.

Len Price 3

So Thursday began with fervent wishes  that Timmy Mallet had never been born and resolutions to never again buy cheap Prosecco.

This was followed by the once yearly viewing of Love Actually and acceptance of my ridiculous girly romantic side.

After which I put on all my clothes (literally ALL my clothes it’s indescribably cold out there kids) and headed into a frozen London.  To a toilet. Albeit a converted one (cottaging not being a lifestyle choice I wanted to make).  To see the Len Price 3 for the first time in over a year.  For they rock like, ‘Like a Romanian Orphanage in the 90s,’ (copyright @rufous).  Ironic really, I’ve seen them in some real dives over the year but a toilet is easily the coolest venue they’ve ever played.  It was all about the candles and Quadrophenia on loop on the big screen.  And our awful 40 minutes of over enthusiastic dancing to their energetic brand of hard and fast garage pop.  I have no idea who Len Price is, he wasn’t there that night.  But there definitely are three of them.  Their songs are catchy and upbeat with some quite beautiful bouts of harmonising.  And hey, if you don’t like one song, the fact that they are all only two to three minutes in length guarantees they’ll be another one along quickly that might just blow you away.  Needless to say, as always, they were the best band that I’d heard all night.  In fact any band who says:

“There was supposed to be a harmonica in that bit, but we just sang babababababaaa instead.”

…needs to be seen.

They were on much later than advertised.  As a result @rufous saw his birthday in on a number 94 bus and I stumbled through the snow arriving home like a slightly inebriated Frosty the Snowman.  Safe in the knowledge that I would be massively pleased with myself the following morning when my alarm went off at 7am (and I was).

London Tube

What happened this morning was that a research proposal was completed against all odds.  Those odds being avoiding Jen for a few hours so we wouldn’t start discussing how we are right about everything and everyone else is wrong.  And how Christmas songs are the best things ever (other than Rupert Penry-Jones in a bullet proof vest, apparently).

And so began the snow.  Three flakes of which would later cripple all forms of public transport anywhere that looked a little bit like London.  And would give me ammunition on the subject of ‘Why Northerners do it better,’ to last for at least the next three months.  Today was the day that I would meet my new work colleagues.  And very lovely they were too.  I haven’t got a clue what any of them were talking about, so suspect between now and the 4th January I should probably read my job description.  The boss told me that the most important thing to do was have fun.  I interpret that as, ‘I give you full permission to spend the vast majority of your working day on Twitter.’  This job is going to be excellent.

Stumbled down the street with sleet in my eyes, raided the Boarders closing down sale, dodged carol singers and Big Issue sellers and braved one shop to do some Christmas shopping.  This did not last long.  It did eventually involve an impromptu visit to Neals Yard in Borough Market to scare my friend Danny by jumping into his arms and hugging him profusely.  A perfectly timed visit/mugging as he’s off on retreat till the Summer.  We  headed to Starbucks for a coffee.  He had a very manly triple shot espresso (I promised I wouldn’t tell anyone he had a hot chocolate).  News and gossip was swapped.  I was given two big hugs at the tube station and told to spend 2010 falling in love and passing all my exams.  That I think I can manage.

In the meantime this happened:

Daniel Taylor: good god, I’m drunk. Why am I still Tweeting????? Ansd why am I tstill at work??? Why?? WHYYYYYYYYYYYY

Jen Lincoln: Oh, god. This is what’s on its way to our flat…

I arrive home and dance enthusiastically through the flat to the Bellamy Brothers to find a distinctly unimpressed Jen and Wilf (otherwise known as Daniel, Dan, my ex-boss or @moralcrusader) who had apparently been doing this for some time.  A bottle of cheap Prosecco was added to the drinks mix and the rest of the night was spent trying to find terrible music on Spotify and eating pizza.  We did manage to find the best Christmas song ever by a group called the The Vandals: ‘Christmas Time for my Penis’.  Later Wilf breaks my toilet and mends it with the use of the shower (I find it best in these situations not to ask for the details).  As revenge he is danced out of the flat to Itsy Bitsy Teeny Weeny Yellow Polka Dot Bikini safe in the knowledge that his phone battery has died, he has no other music and he will be singing this for the rest of the night.  As were we.  Damn.


@clairemims Jen: what did I say George Michael’s new song was “Jesus shat on my pillow?” Me: ummm I don’t think it was that exactly…

Christmas Tree

And so it began with the Bellamy Brothers.  In fact, it began with them so hard that Jen (otherwise known as my flatmate or @_linco) was banned from playing Let Your Love Flow on Last FM for the foreseeable future.  Not something many people can lay claim to I’m sure.  And frankly, that just shows how cool she is.

It was supposed to be a day of work.  Instead, we spent the day with a brew of teas and sporadic sofa dancing to Christmas songs.  Jen also spent a considerable amount of time scribbling on a blank sheet of A4 paper with a big black marker and plotting giving the ten copies of a certain ‘celebrity’ DVD that are sitting on our table, afros.  But wimped out when we decided that he is almost definitely harder than we are.

Other notable events included decorating our magnificent Christmas tree (which I have been growing for one whole year) and eating soup off a plate after Greek dish smashing apocalypse courtesy of the Lincoln.  We’ll need to hit Poundland soon or a cheaper and more simple alternative, avoid all soup based meals.


@clairemims *Do they know it’s Christmas plays in the background* Jen: I LOVE this song! Me: Me too! Jen: Let’s never tell anyone we just said that…