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alexsarllEight days since I updated? It's not as if I haven't been doing stuff, much of it fun; I'm just not sure a lot of it would make for an account anyone else wants to read. Consider ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
diggerdydum drinks, for instance, where without the pseudo-fez pictures I'd just be left with a series of recursive in-jokes of which "something for the Richard Dadds" is probably the only one that bears repeating. And the only issue of the day to exercise me centres around the arrival of .xxx, a domain expressly designated for filth. Now, any smart company has all their suffixes registered, don't they? .com may be your brand, but you buy up .net as well, and .co.uk, and so forth. But how about this? Who will register tesco.xxx? disney.xxx? earlylearningcentre.xxx?
So, what is there to report? An old colleague's book launch on Friday (strange how any home movie of a certain vintage now acts as an instant signifier for nostalgia, almost regardless of content), then on to the final Cross Kings AFE. A venue I'd hated beforehand, but have come to forgive even its appalling murals simply by association with this night. It's only fitting for a Stay Beautiful-inspired event to be forced into something of the same wander around London, I suppose, but I hope it can take its atmosphere with it better than SB sometimes managed.
Went for pizza on Saturday. In the great Finsbury Park pizza war, I have always sided with Porchetta, simply because they do quattro formaggi better, but they've just had an ill-advised refurb and installed a load of blaring, glaring plasma screens, so we figured Pappagone was worth another try. And we got outside tables, and the pizzas were yummy (I went fiorentina instead), and everything was fine...and then they rolled down their own big screen. Quiet, at least, but being outside put us behind and to one side of it, and trying to signal to the staff inside felt like being in a ghost story where you're trapped in a mirror. Took 15 minutes to get the bill. Fvcking footballism.
Sunday was a Brontosaurus Chorus show, with some of them supporting themselves as Dinosaur Senior, the dino-masked and -themed covers band. Both fine sets, ditto the astonishing-looking Pussycat & the Dirty Johnsons, who thought I looked bored but how can one be when there's a girl with her hair done up like ears stomping around tables in a catsuit, screaming? I just have a jaded face. All this in the Bloomsbury Bowl, but not the one I knew - turns out there's another bar, the Kingpin Suite, which is nearly as bling as the name suggests; they have Baywatch pinball and even the ventilation ducts are mirrored.
diggerdydum drinks, for instance, where without the pseudo-fez pictures I'd just be left with a series of recursive in-jokes of which "something for the Richard Dadds" is probably the only one that bears repeating. And the only issue of the day to exercise me centres around the arrival of .xxx, a domain expressly designated for filth. Now, any smart company has all their suffixes registered, don't they? .com may be your brand, but you buy up .net as well, and .co.uk, and so forth. But how about this? Who will register tesco.xxx? disney.xxx? earlylearningcentre.xxx? So, what is there to report? An old colleague's book launch on Friday (strange how any home movie of a certain vintage now acts as an instant signifier for nostalgia, almost regardless of content), then on to the final Cross Kings AFE. A venue I'd hated beforehand, but have come to forgive even its appalling murals simply by association with this night. It's only fitting for a Stay Beautiful-inspired event to be forced into something of the same wander around London, I suppose, but I hope it can take its atmosphere with it better than SB sometimes managed.
Went for pizza on Saturday. In the great Finsbury Park pizza war, I have always sided with Porchetta, simply because they do quattro formaggi better, but they've just had an ill-advised refurb and installed a load of blaring, glaring plasma screens, so we figured Pappagone was worth another try. And we got outside tables, and the pizzas were yummy (I went fiorentina instead), and everything was fine...and then they rolled down their own big screen. Quiet, at least, but being outside put us behind and to one side of it, and trying to signal to the staff inside felt like being in a ghost story where you're trapped in a mirror. Took 15 minutes to get the bill. Fvcking footballism.
Sunday was a Brontosaurus Chorus show, with some of them supporting themselves as Dinosaur Senior, the dino-masked and -themed covers band. Both fine sets, ditto the astonishing-looking Pussycat & the Dirty Johnsons, who thought I looked bored but how can one be when there's a girl with her hair done up like ears stomping around tables in a catsuit, screaming? I just have a jaded face. All this in the Bloomsbury Bowl, but not the one I knew - turns out there's another bar, the Kingpin Suite, which is nearly as bling as the name suggests; they have Baywatch pinball and even the ventilation ducts are mirrored.
