So last night I organised an event at Jewel Bar Covent Garden. I really should have known that it was going to be fraught with issues because;
a) It’s in the West End on a Friday
b) The woman was uber excited about Charlie from Kiss FM playing there. Who? The breakfast show she explained with a squeal. Who is he? A friend kindly explained to me that Charlie wasn’t the pop dj I thought it was but a woman from Essex who played more RnB.
But anyway I’m nothing if not a trier and the deposit for an area wasn’t ridiculous.
I get there early and a couple get there earlier. At least it’s clear from their body language that they want to be a couple but for now they’re playing the work colleagues role. I’ve met him before but never her and immediately I’m getting some negativity from her. Why chica, you have the man and yes he’s hotter than Morris Chestnut but he’s smitten with you. At this point I want to lecture her on chilling the F out but others arrive and I forget about Madam Attitude.
The couple keep disappearing for hours on end and I’m just tired of being their bag watchers as they snog off in corners. At least I hope this is what they’re doing. I’m semi enjoying myself although the music Charlie the girl is playing is definitely not RnB. It’s that Dance crap.
I interrupt this to say that some Dance music is the cruellest thing ever. You start off with an RnB or pop song that is well loved by all such as Beyonce then you murder it with some dance track remix crap that no one but uncoordinated men like. You all know who I mean. The out of towners. Not the straight from workers who understand the subtle nuances of socialising in London but those that tend to go out to the same one club every week because it’s the club they’re known at. Like Oceana.
This night we were entertained by a crew of guys who must be from Kent (I say Kent as Essex guys have a twee bit more hair products added to their ensemble) who were dressed in white trainers, jeans and a colour board of blue polo shirts from Le costa, Ralph Lauren or maybe even Polo. I can’t really tell the difference. The cool drunken small one who I immediately knew was the female puller we called Leonard di Caprio. Women were happy to speak to him but less so his friends. Maybe because his polo shirt was black?
Leonardo kept resting at our table. This didn’t bother anyone as it was clear that he had drank more alcohol than his vertically challenged frame could handle. But this was a decision I was to come to regret.
Now where is part 2 of this story?
© Chelsea Black