I am too old to be out in Shoreditch but there I was, heading to a 90’s themed party. Although, in East London, a ‘90’s themed party’ is effectively just a ‘party’.
I went to the wrong floor at first. Ah, here they all are! Black chokers, ill-informed denim jackets, shit hair…nope! Just your regular Shoreditch drinking hole.
Revellers at the right party
This was my first night out as a singleton for months.
Suck it up.
It felt like a reunion after the hibernation of a monogamy cocoon. Friends of yesteryear, all dressed like Tools. Yeah! 90’s heaven! All I needed now was a toke on a herbal fag and to be fingered on the dance floor.
It was great to see people again and I am partial to a jager bomb but I can’t be doing with all this shouting over the music business:
Me: “HE JUST DIDN’T LOVE ME, EM”.
Ooh, aah, just a little bit….
Em: “DO YOU THINK THERE WAS SOMEONE ELSE”?
Ooh, aah, a little bit more…
Before I could respond, a Tamagotchi fell into my lap.
Suzie! Where have you been hiding? Ooh…don’t come so close with those buttons, I’m not so good at keeping things alive.
Oh sod it, I thought. No point lamenting. This is a par-tay! Sing it Kavana!
So I did the only thing a melancholy hotty could do in this situation: I boogied my way over to the guy with the most facial hair (a tough feat in Shoreditch - this guy was packing some tufts).
“Hey. Nice tache, super sleuth”.
He turned. Nodded his appreciation.
I then launched the killer line, the Eros arrow, always primed to work:
“You look like Richard from Guess Who”.
He turned. Looked at me. His tache unmoving, like a sexy, dead slug.
That’s when it hit me.
These bastards were barely alive in the 90s. Babes in arms when Leslie Ash still had thin lips, when Brit Pop was riding high and Dane Bowers was the casanova of choice.
What was I doing here? I was there the first time around when pills were pure and STD’s an enviable disease. (“Oh my god! You had sex?! Virtual high five, sista”)!
It was great to see everyone but I could catch up with them at my leisure, in a quieter, more refined atmosphere. Perhaps, over a cup of Yorkshire Tea or during a stroll on the Heath. Maybe even take in some Jacobean theatre and converse in the interval.
I gently orchestrated an Irish Goodbye, something I have perfected brilliantly over the years. I pulled my coat and scarf from underneath a drooling Noel Gallagher, authentically locked in the mutha of K Holes.
Heading for the Overland, I meandered through piles of sick and queues for pop-up techno clubs. The promise of policed fun hung diligently in the air.
I was done with promises.
Safe in the sanctum of an empty train, I played things over in my head.
I had come out too soon after the break up. Booze would not help me get over this one. Neither would kissing super sleuths.
I suppose much like the draw of East London, it is all a smoky façade. Right?!
None of it is real…life, love, Shoreditch. (That’s actually a great slogan – the tourist board can have that one).
It had been a great party but I had chosen to leave.
Alighting at the station, I gave my mum two rings to pick me up. But then I remembered that this was no longer the 90s, so I queued for the bus and headed home alone.