failure of a stinker review

So I went to this. Unfortunately I actually thought pretty much everyone was good. Damn good. Brilliant, in fact. So the spirit of this post is not available. By about midnight the floor had got to about optimal density – not quite to the point where you start worrying that you’re going to be knocked down in the ruth or tread on someone important’s head or catch a dreaded skin disease but well past the point of running at maximum efficiency. People kept packing in and the tall ones turned up. You know the ones – I first encountered them in a pub in Highgate, looking around and being amazed by the vast cliffs on every side blocking out the light.

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Anyway, despite the inverse Randy Newman problem, the hit and hope photos over the wall of tall turned out a bit more fire and forget than I expected.

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And I was asked for drugs – on the contrary to this post, I wasn’t taken for a user but a dealer. I should worry that I’m being accused of progressively more serious offences, I guess.

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Later I found out that someone had sent me a work e-mail while I was dancing. Gah, pales in comparison with the Frenchman I spotted peering at “courriels (professionels)” on a BlackBerry. Faut mieux laisser, quoi. The following isn’t mine but the result of a cursory trawl.


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