Race Riot?

Many of you expressed horror at last week's Kate in the Countryside, which saw KITC party to the worst case of sporting sabotage this century. Or so we thought. 

Trenton, mate, if you want to be taken seriously...

Then came Saturday: the day the world met Trenton Oldfiled. A self-proclaimed Suffragette of our times, Trenton is man so committed to the fight against elitism that he ignores the elitist principles of spelling even for his own name.

It was 1pm and grey when I left the Pad for the river. In my cautiously worn Blues stash I fitted in perfectly with the baying braying crowd. The mood was obnoxious and cheerful. 

Oh who am I kidding? I love the Boat Race. In spite of the weather, the banks of the Thames were heaving with enthusiasts emboldened by Pimm's. It was impossible to find anyone or to move. Cast up between a cake stall and the entrepreneurial burger table, I was in danger of accidentally buying a hot dog when my fellow spectators found me.

One, dressed in even more stash than I, had not worn a coat. 

'You must be cold?' I asked.

'No. I've got nine Blues,' he explained.

We kept moving to avoid all the other awful people, and they, us. Soon, the two boats passed, Oxford just ahead.

'Oh God,' moaned Nine Blues, 'it's only just started. We've lost.'

'Watching' the Boat Race by the Thames is a bit of a contradiction in terms. Though you are treated to a lot of atmosphere (read: tweed) you can't see much rowing. There's a good bit for about ten seconds when the boats pass near enough for you to work out which is which but, other than that, we'd had our allotted excitement. When the group in front of us were splashed by the convoy's wake and a girl dropped her drink it was already had one of the most eventful Boat Races I'd ever been to.

We wandered back down towards the start and its giant TV screen. We observed a pigeon. We wondered whether to have another lukewarm beer.

The drink-dropper seemed determined to liven things up: 'Hey look, there's a bloke in the water. Someone's fallen in!' 

This seemed unlikely. Rowing is a simple sport.

'It's a streaker!' I suggested optimistically.

'It's a protest,' volunteered a radio-carrying gent who was passing.

Like I say, you can't see much at the Boat Race. We called a friend.

'Some cretin jumped in. They're restarting the race,' he explained.

We all agreed that the crews should have carried on and got him.

'Would man's head have been chopped off or just gouged?' Mother Dearest mused, via text.

It was at that point we gave up on the live experience and headed to a pub. As for the #boatraceswimmer, we don't need to talk about him. That pratty little man and his God complex and his beard. And his imbecilic ranting. So we won't. You know the rest. 

But be warned Oldfeild: England is unhappy with you. And we won't miss again.

(Lucky) Escape to the Countryside

Apple Day happened last weekend. For those of you who are not familiar with this illustrious occasion, it celebrates the end of the apple harvest. It is not - as PG (in her other guise as the Apple Hostess) was quick to clarify - the one day in which all apples are picked on all farms. Thank God. It's more an educative opportunity regarding apples.

The weekend's warm up to Apple Sunday was not so cerebral.

Friday's quiet drink with friends involved an accidental visit to the m&m's 'World' in Leicester Square. There, bouncers wore m&m's ties while shop assistants with sad eyes danced uncomfortably to the hyperpop next to m&ms inexplicably arranged to look somewhat like the Beatles. 

Terrifying

'Just look at all the different flavours of m&m's!' enthused Unlikely Militant Raver, one of the chums, trying to stay upbeat. [There were three (3) flavours.] Failing to fight the place's atmosphere of canned hopelessness with enthusiasm, we left.

It became clear that - to UMR - such an experience could only be topped, post pub, by a visit to a strip club. No matter that it was 9.30 and a third of the party was female - UMR would not be deterred. Attention transferred from chocolate pellets to naked chicks, he struggled to get us on board.

'Come on you bores! It's this great place my Grandad's told me about. (Pause. Confusion.) We'll walk past - see what's going down.'

The club of choice is just by where I work. Which is nice. We approached the bouncer: 

'Oh look! What about this place?' (UMR, acting) 'We could just grab a drink in here guys.'

Bouncer: 'Lads, lads, er, this place is not the sort of place you go for - er - "drinks".'

UMR: Right. What sort of a place is it then?

Jez

Bouncer (both awkward and smarmy. Think apologetic Jeremy Kyle): Well, it's got girls in. 

UMR (politely, in manner of enquiry): Girls?

Bouncer (coy): So - er - a bottle of champagne will be … so I mean you'll have to buy drinks for the girls. 

UMR (feigning sudden understanding): Aaah! The girls take their clothes off!

All look at me.

KitC (scrambling for taking-charge-of-the-conversation pleasantries): Er … busy night so far? Good ... turnout? So. Shall I leave?

Thank God for Sunday and the wholesome opportunity to sample the repertoire of this year's apples. Down in the countryside I found an idyll of apple-enthusiasts - not to mention the highlight: PG stashed up in farm outfit. Occasional animals and aesthetically-pleasing children ambled past the apple juice like extras in an Austen remake. Though the long-promised Apple Quiz did not materialise, there were plenty of Enid Blyton activities (apple bobbing, old-school pinball) to make the day an extravaganza of loveliness. Kate in the Countryside restored.

The Only Way is Chelsea (Part 2 - The Escape)

Scurrying from the previous episode's cosy Chelsea nightspot and its preponderance of gits, we hunted for a night bus. As the four of us walked along, we found ourselves being showered with CDs. Git 5 now stumbled up, apparently considering this glass-based attack a perfect way to charm the group. Tactful Friend attempted (tactfully) to dismiss him. So tactful was she he did not notice. Unlucky Friend asserted herself with more vigour, and dispatched the yob.

The best Google Images can do on the Flying CDs front

The presence of flying CDs yet unexplained we parted ways: the rest of the group south; Kate in the Countryside striking out alone the opposite way - back to the wilds of Pimlico. 

As I waited at the bus stop, the door to the flat opposite was abruptly flung open. Two boys fell out and started picking up the remnants of the flying CDs. 


They spotted me. I pretended to be fascinated by my book ('The Rum Diary' in case anyone's interested) but it was a fragile conceit.

'Come to a party!' Oddly, this chap seemed to be Not A Git. I looked up.


'Thanks - I'm afraid I have to catch a bus. Another time.'


Undeterred, he rolled out a string of (at the time, incredibly compelling) reasons why I should attend. At last, sizing them up as non-rapists and assessing their hallway to be neither the hallway of a crack den nor a Mormon haunt, I agreed. It's the King's Road remember. What could go wrong?

Up the stairs I ventured to a flat full of people I did not know. Here I was waylaid by Pensive Git (Git 6, for those of you still counting). Pensive Git had reached the contemplative stage of his evening and decided I was the perfect person to share his revelatory mood.

First I heard about his brother and his brother's plans for the future. Soon after, I was told about his early years at boarding school and the difficulties he'd had settling in, problems that were connected in some way to cattle farming - though I may be misremembering. We then moved on to a breakdown of his life objectives and career goals. He has a job interview in a couple of days and is planning to move into asset management, in case you were wondering. At this stage, he had yet to ask my name. However, since I'd just stumbled into the party of a bunch of people I'd never met, I couldn't really complain that the company wasn't up to scratch.

As he took to categorising the life lessons he'd learned up to and including tonight, he began to fumble at my knee. I realised at this stage that it was time to go. Hailing NAG, I announced my intention and thanked him for his hospitality. His enthusiasm was overwhelming, badly expressed - 'It's been seminal!' - and frankly quite sweet. Unfortunately Pensive Git seemed to believe my departure a come on.

'I'm leaving too!' he exclaimed. He groped for my name. 'Er... I'll show you, her, out yeah. Yeah. Bye then NAG.' He paused to embrace his old schoolfriend and, seizing my chance, I darted for the door.

Seminal indeed.

The Only Way is Chelsea

I have recently realised that nights out with Tactful Friend always lead to encounters with London's Gits. This weekend was no exception. 

That'll be £64.50, thanks

On Saturday, we attempted an elegant and - yes - cripplingly expensive round of cocktails at a cosy Chelsea hangout. Two drinks in, the bar was so busy we were being made forcibly friendly with the lads beside us. And we couldn't afford enough cocktails for that.

Soon Git 1 lunged past, nearly smashing both Tactful Friend's face and drink. In moments our group turned chav, abusing the wretch with all manner of gestures. The X Factor's most illustrious judges would have been proud. 

Next, Git 2 arrived. Not a man I recognised, but two members of our party turned steely. Both recounted Git 2's actively aggressive (and repeated) attempts at charming them, instances I then realised I had witnessed. They went as follows:

Unlucky Friend (dancing uncomfortably and at some distance from Git 2) tries to edge away from his pursuit.

Git 2: 'Lighten up why don't you? Can't you just chill out and have a good time?!'

UF's lack of enthusiasm becomes so pronounced it's almost a condition.

'Come on!' Git 2 grabs wrists of UF, in manner of domestic violence infomercial, and enforces complex gyration.

UF bobs, casting increasingly repulsed looks to the rest of the group. At last, recalling the old failsafe, UF moves in to structure a line or two of conversation.

[Git 2 delighted.]

Pleasantries commence. Then, the bombshell:

UF: 'So I was saying to my boyfriend the other day…'

Git 2, scandalised, drops wrists with embarrassing haste - 'Boyfriend?! Thanks for wasting my fucking time' - and flees.

And so it's with horror we realise he's here again, approaching the bar and UF and clutching an unsteady drink.

'I wanted to apologise,' he slurs.

(UF hostile)

'This [proffers drink] is for you.'

(UF thawing) 'Aw. Thanks Git 2. It's OK - don't worry about it.'

Brent: A regular

Gits 3 and 4 approach at this point to replenish Git Quota:

'Need drinks, girls? Course you do. I'm getting them. (Loudly) Anyway so I said to him "Mate let me remind you - you're not the only son of an oligarch in this fucking place."'

Pause. 
Git 3 dissolves into laughter looking around at us all to check we're giving the riposte the wild enthusiasm it deserves.

We manage weak smiles, which seem to buy us the drink. Git 4 talks at me for a bit while Git 3 engages TF. Within moments we both develop a crippling need for the loo. 

As we depart, Git 2 warbles up, spies Unlucky Friend and smoothes back his hair:

'Well hey, you look like you need to chill out and have some fun tonight.'

'I have a boyfriend.'

'Right. Yeah. Oh fuck off then. [Sudden recognition] And you owe me a drink.'