Some time back in the distant past I met Lee whilst traveling around the country in a van with a band or two. After staying in touch, and since visiting his pad in Barnsley, he came up to Glasgow for what I’d promised would be a night worthy of the torturous Megabus journey up and back down again.
Not wanting to let the reputation of our fine city slip, I assembled a rag-tag melee of folks to consume some beverages at the flat before heading onward to work at the Cathouse. Whilst not universal, one of the things that connected the majority of us was Twitter, and it struck me that whilst most of the people had conversed virtually in passing, they’d never actually met in person.
A shared love of White Russians and other idiosyncratic commonalities that had sprouted over time led to a fair few bottles of spirits being consumed before we made it into the outside world. It’s with a particular pride that I include this sinister looking ‘Magic Mushroom Vodka’ monstrosity that Lee had brought up with him. Having been smuggled imported legally from Amsterdam a number of years ago, it had sat practically untouched on his shelf ever since.
…till it spent a couple of hours in Glasgow. Not only was the whole thing quaffed in a record time, but some bright spark even had the idea that we should all eat a piece of the elongated mushroom.
Good work.
The collective memory of the night appears to have failed from this point on, although apparently I met some other fellow Tumblr-ers…
Even with Al and Lee commandeering camera-wielding duties for a portion of the night, it wasn’t enough to stop me dropping the full thing on the dancefloor at some stage, and trashing yet another element. It’s genuinely amazing that my cameras have survived over five years of being thrown around the situations they’ve been forced into.
It’s always nice to experience a place that you go every week with people that feel out of context. The group amnesia of the whole thing is probably also a good thing, although I know for a fact that there are one or two people who remember far more than I’d care them to. Or at least, I’d like to know exactly what on earth I said to them. Alcohol might make you honest, but too much alcohol makes you forget how honest you actually were.
There are various pictures of the journey home that should never be seen by anybody, including those of certain people lying in certain compromising situations on pavements… floors… etc… the hazy recollection of which blends neatly into the total mish-mash of comings and goings that ensued: Al turning up at some God forsaken hour after having attempted to walk home, before miraculously finding his way back to the flat to demand that I return his jacket that he had “definitely not taken to the Cathouse” (which, it transpires, he had left in the cloakroom); Charlotte turning up at 8am to collect her bag; Alex leaving early to go… somewhere?!
The stupidity rolled on into the next day with the standard hangover ciders being offered to the visiting Yorkshireman.
I say ‘offered’, but in his own words, Lee later told me that ‘when a pished, half naked lunatic Scotsman is waving about a saw and shouting at you to drink, you do it.’
You can’t say we’re not hospitable up here.
I’ve learned that vodka martini is definitely not a drink to have as your second hair-of-the-dog, and that when you feel your brain and legs go numb, it’s probably a better idea to pass out on the floor than head out to Nice ‘n’ Sleazy’s for more punishment.
There are plans afoot to have a similar outing to Leeds in December – the prospect of which is only slightly terrifying.
Lee’s own account of the whole thing is rather humorous, worth a read, and can be found on his blog.
Anyway, viva la Cathouse. Roll on Halloween.