December 1, 2007
It's somewhere around 10am in a room on the second floor of a Premier Lodge nestling in the backstreets of downtown Liverpool. I've been awake, properly awake, for about an hour, trying to figure out how to work the TV in order to drown out the noise of the saxophonist, whose practice studio is helpfully right opposite my window (which doesn't properly open, incidentally, otherwise the saxophonist in question would currently be sporting a Premier Lodge hairdryer up his arse).
The room smells of half-eaten chicken kebab and chips, the uneaten half of which is hanging on to the edge of the bin with remarkable dexterity.
It also smells a bit of sick, but I can't quite see where that is. Yet.
Anyway, I am in my hotel room. I am alone. And while I am indeed undressed it appears that I managed not to wander, buck naked and fast asleep, along the perilous corridors. This time.
So where was I? Ah yes, that blog meet...
Who, then, was there?
Well, if Avrilo and Mr Avrilo ever got there, it was after I gave up the ghost at a ridiculously early hour having started to feel "settled" thanks to a pleasing combination of vodka, red wine, white wine, and Black Soup. And a canape.
But those who were there included (because I know I'll miss people out) the wonderful and generous host MenoMama, Ozzzy, Redleader, Mrs Redleader (rubychoo.blog.co.uk, fact fans), Rowtheboat, Ladee-bird (and her remarkable suitcase - more of which later), Idontknowwhy, Soy (hehe - I know she hates that), Old Nick, Ships Cook, Mrs F, Sallyontour, Rampage (of BCUK fame), Denzil, MagicalMysteryTour, Louisa Outram (in the world's most outrageous thigh-high boots - so outrageous, I'm considering therapy to get them out of my mind (he says, wiping his brow)), Gilrean and her husband, Fatal, Molty, AJ and Subz (more of which in a short while), SweetyMon and her boyfriend Mike, Sweety Mon's mum Miza-T, erm, me, and, well, other people, I think, and when I remember I'll update it.
Everyone else had digital cameras so no doubt things will appear on BCUK later today and tomorrow. I, on the other hand, just had a pissed hand on my camera phone.
Hence these:
The night before the morning after - Ozzzy and Meno starring in The Mystery Of The Black Soup, The Lake hostelry, Hoylake, Thursday, November 29, 2007.
Ships Cook and Mrs F looking remarkably calm. I know - my phone's shit.
I met Ladee-bird at Lime Street station, a few minutes before Soy and Idontknowhy arrived, in turn a few moments before Old Nick and Mrs F made an appearance.
It turns out that Ladee-bird is not just a wife and mother, but she is also a blacksmith. Or at least she must be, because that fucking suitcase (for one night only, bear in mind), weighed so much it must have at least had an anvil, thirty heavy-duty horseshoes, a furnace and indeed an actual real life full-size shire horse inside.
Here, she contemplates life over a glass of wine with Row.
And here, she is suddenly horrifed to learn that she hasn't got changed in the last hour or so, while an apparently naked-but-for-a-belt man stands behind her.
Ozzzy and I picked up Meno from Sweety Mon and Miza-T's place on Thursday. They have an impossibly cute dog who likes eating feet. His name is Oliver. And this is he:
This was before anyone went off for something to eat, would you believe. This is not the result of my camera work, incidentally, it is merely an accurate description of Rowtheboat's demeanour as she sat talking to Old Nick.
Incidentally, it would be caddish of me to mention the seven voicemails that awaited me this morning from a certain person known as The Boat, tearfully describing how lost she was in the metropolis around midnight, saying "I don't know where I am", and then slurring that she does, in fact, know where she is, and sorry about that, so, you know, I won't.
And finally to Subz. She brought the AJ. She brought a smile. She brought a lovely long hug for MenoMama. And frankly, she could have brought water that turned into wine, Elvis Presley and the meaning of life - none of them would have had the capacity to last in the memory of this blogger more than the heart-clenching vision of these little pair of terrors adorning her feet:
No wonder I was sick...
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