30 years old. Ouch. Despite acting as an indicator of ever-advancing death, it's a nice looking number. It's much less jagged and ungainly than 29. But the aesthetics should supposedly reflect your state of mind. Gone is the time for undecision. It's time to know who you are and where it is you're at. I entered my 30th year the other week and can confirm nothing has changed. I still don't know what time it is. Thankfully there were two days of hard shindiggery and sloppy shenaniganry to wade through to commemorate the date. I didn't have time to think about anything too hard. Like what the fuck it is I'm doing.
Instead our club crew Kiss the Fist repped hard and fast down in the bowels of the Baby Bathhouse in Stoke Newington. Our evening culminated in a 'stirring' rendition of 'Come on Eileen', shots of jager and me sen having an undignified piss down an alley.
Saturday was one full of surprises. From waking up on a mattress at a mate's gaff, to eating a fry up with liver to an actual real life surprise do in the evening. I was tricked. The gathering featured rubber gloves, Manchester eggs (like scotched ones except with pickled eggs and crisps rather than your bog standard hen's egg and bread crumbs), a Gregg's and southern fried chicken platter - but the crowning glory was taken by the dessert - a Frank Sidebottom cake.
Never have I felt more touched. Big up to everyone who repped. And big up the culinary smorgasboard crew. It was emotional...
A birthday painting gift - a collection of slightly sinister clowns
Hash pipe - all the way from the East
The arms of dolls - in a glass case - embedded in the bar of the Baby Bathhouse - standard
Set 5 Mixed grill breakfast - note liver - goes well with a pint
Frank Sidebottom cake
Frank Sidebottom cake in a cocktail
Getting done up the wrong 'un by Grace
Nando's - before
Nando's - After - bones sucked dry
It's a cheese cake ting - stay classy
