Brick Lane

Jiminy Cricket and Non-Blondie, two of the absolute coolest (or perhaps the dorkiest, it can be hard to tell sometimes) bloggers and people-in-their-own-right have kind of officially left the country.

Not prepared to see them go without some sort of a send-off, after some discussion and a little confusion over whether they were free, it was decided that on Friday night we would meet for a couple of quiet drinks, and possibly a game or two of darts. We being the The Girl, Dune and myself as well as the JC and NB.

The plan originally was that we were to meet NB at the pub on Brick Lane where she worked, a couple of hours after she was due to finish, since her regular customers were planning on buying her a few glasses of mineral water and the like. Since Dune worked in east London, she was due to meet NB earlier, while The Girl and I were going to catch up on the drinks when we arrived. Jiminy also had his last day in work on Friday, but unfortunately for him, this didn't involve being bought drinks and instead seemed to mean working late.

Everything was going as planned when I got to the pub -- I'd met the girl, we had found the pub and met Dune and NB inside. I left almost right away to go and get some money out, and it was when I returned that the evening started to wonderfully deviate from its intended course. The landlord of the pub had unfortunately needed to leave unexpectedly with the police, and quite sensibly had placed NB in charge -- since the two girls working behind the bar were still quite new, and didn't speak English very well. Staying in the pub a little longer than originally planned was by no means a bad thing, it had a lot of character -- and a lot of characters who didn't mind buying the occasional drink for a pretty girl, like the three bloggers whose company I was enjoying.

Jiminy joined us before too long, with his enigmatic friend Ted -- last seen in our company on the night Boris Johnson banned drinking on the tube -- and together we all found staying later in the pub also had another advantage: it was karaoke night.
Karaoke night was made all the more appealing by a distinct lack of food in the pub, not having eaten since about midday, and several pints of lager.

Karaoke in a pub is very different to a private karaoke room. For a start, it takes you out of your comfort zone -- the support and encouragement of your friends is matched by the possible reactions of a room full of strangers. It also introduces a wider range of styles and music, and most of all it has a DJ. I don't know if it's common in these places, but the DJ on Friday night was the most self-obsessed karaoke host I have ever known. The man was less introduced in people singing than he was showing off his own karaoke skills in between almost every song. What is the point in being a karaoke host if you can't stand to share the limelight with everyone else? At first it was faintly amusing, he wanted to be the centre of attention, that's fine -- but his own performances probably equalled as many as everyone else put together and he was skipping out songs by Dune and The Girl without apology or explanation. You couldn't help but feel maybe he should get a private room, just for him and his ego. Yes, we know you love karaoke and you clearly love to sing karaoke in front of people as often as you can -- but there is a limit.

There was not a limit, however, to the karaoke talent. Dune was first out of the gate with her blazing rendition of Touch-A, Touch-A, Touch Me, The Girl was showing off her own vocal stylings with Don't Speak, and even Ted showed himself to be a karaoke madman with an impassioned (or perhaps drunk) performance of Ace of Spades. Naturally, everyone was in awe of my own musical skills -- treating the clientele first to Teenage Kicks (with the chorus changed back to the original lyrics "I want to hold, want to hold it tight...") and a suitably downplayed Bohemian Like You (the "ooh-ooh-oooooh" being particularly brilliant). My final choice of song was a spur of the moment decision -- I had wanted The Clash, but someone else beat me to it, and I also wanted Folsom Prison Blues (after hearing Dune's Ring of Fire), but it was nowhere to be found, so I had to find a third choice.

Paying no heed to the fact that I was in a pub on Brick Lane, I thought the most appropriate song for the evening would be Pretty Fly For A White Guy, which I opted to try and give a New York-Beastie Boys flavour to, rather than the Offspring's original Californian punk style. Apparently I must have been dramatically popular, as both Ted and a drunk man who smelled bad kept wanting to join in and share the microphone with me.

The evening wore on, and Dune had to make her trek home across London -- having stayed out later than she had originally intended to. Thinking this wasn't such a bad idea, since we had a train to catch, The Girl and I also took our leave of Jiminy, NB and Ted in a slightly drunken search for KFC on route to the station.

Somewhere in the excitement of it all, I left my bag on the table in the pub -- narrowly avoiding a terror scare, I expect, by the fact that my good friends were still at the table. I'm surprised that I managed to keep hold of my camera, wallet, phone and door keys, but I did forget my sunglasses. Not to fear, though, as Jiminy safely reunited my glasses with my bag, and charged the esoteric Ted with looking after my bag until I could retrieve it the next day. Since I had all my valuables, my main concern was that Ted might find my paper journal, perhaps if it fell out of the bag, and all my secrets would be revealed. On sober reflection the next day, I wondered why I ever thought he would give a notebook more than a passing moment's thought.

A great night was had, and although there were no dart games, it seems to me like the evening was a fitting send off for the blogger dork twins. Friends, drinks, karaoke, general madness. It's not a sad farewell though, as they are coming back for a few weeks in August -- presumably for one last look at the Great British Summer.