Andrew Kay: Yak Yak Yak

Oh my aching bones

So here I am rattling on about dancing being a thing of my past and within a week there I am, up on the dance floor and wobbling away in time, mostly, with some of the best pop music of all time. I say mostly because my more than ample figure does suffer from a rippling effect that means that some of the parts, furthest from the core, are moving slightly behind the beat. I know I have a vision in my head that a video of me dancing now would look a little like the iconic video of Kate Bush singing ‘Wuthering Heights’ but more withering than Wuthering!
The occasion was a stag do, in ‘that’ London. My dear friends Mr Clifford and Naughty Jack have decided to tie the knot and in doing so have created a series of wedding related events that span three weeks and culminate with a dinner in New York.
Sadly I cannot make the New York leg of the wedding of the year so I decided to make the very most of the stag night.
This was held at the rather nice Phoenix Artists Club in Charing Cross Road, a venue that they are members of and that I had visited with them before. It’s a slice of old theatreland that deserves a Grade I listing, a place of exuberant merry-making and lashings of booze.
I took that to be my theme for the evening and threw myself into things with gay abandon.
First though a spot of retail therapy in Chelsea although I did not spend a bean. I did though meet a friend for coffee and had the unexpected joy of being given a brace of coffees on the house by a lovely lady in Pret A Manger because she liked my moustache. What a kind gesture in a world of fast and furious and so often indifferent service. Hats off to her!
From there I took advantage of my Travelcard ticket and crossed London by bus, soaking up so many of my favourite sights, the stamping grounds of my youth, or at least those that are left. How the capital is changing.

I had booked into the Tavistock Hotel for the night, perfectly nice and very reasonably priced – which is ideal if you need only a place to lay your head. Much as I enjoy luxury hotels I am loathe to spend silly money for what would be only minutes of consciousness.
I checked in, showered, took a quick power nap and then, dressed in a party shirt and tie, walked to the party. That was a mistake as it was further away than I had thought and I had already had a tiring day.
I arrived in time for the speeches, hilarious and moving. Mr C is a clever wordsmith and Mr J threw in a song, well why not.
This was followed by cabaret from Miss Tiffany Wells, a hearty drag queen who knows how to whip up an audience with a blend of saucy banter, wicked asides and popular song.
Being sophisticates the couple then offered us a gourmet treat – of bacon or sausage baps. Well you can forget canapes kids, this was exactly what we needed on two counts. Count one: the mopping up of copious amounts of beer and wine, and count two: DISCO!
It was loud disco too, but a mix of all the songs you have ever felt the need to stand up and dance to. There were classics from several decades ringing out from the main bar. I had initially moved to the quieter room to enjoy chatting with old friends, but the drums, the drums called out to me.
Pretty soon I was out there, dancing and sadly falling over too, so enthusiastic was I, and so slightly piddles too. But I was having fun, a great time and I did not care. It made me feel young again and I felt safe and warm, whirling around the sticky floor with friends old and new. Dancing is a great leveller and a great way of meeting new people.

I walked back to my hotel shortly after the DJ played ‘Let’s Do The Time Warp Again’, which was close to 2am and a real time warp seemed imminent. Funnily enough it seemed much shorter on the way back with the aid of beers, wine and – oh yes, a large whiskey.
I fell into bed and slept soundly until 8am. The sleep of the gods, well the sleep of Bacchus I suspect.
The shower called, then a decent fried breakfast and a bus to Victoria and thence home. It was then that I realised that my tired old body was feeling the after effects of the exertions of the night before. I ached in a way that I had never ached before. Every part of my sad old carcass was throbbing in a way that could only be described as moaning, a low deep set ache that pervaded every inch of my being.
Funnily enough, at that point it did not seem to be affecting my head, which seemed refreshingly clear as I walked through the deserted Sunday streets of the capital.

I met friends and we motored home, a welcome alternative to a Sunday of bus replacement services from Three Bridges. I have lived here for thirty years and can number the Sunday train journeys without bus replacements on one hand, well almost. It does seem that the Brighton line suffers from a Sunday malaise of a perpetual nature.
I was home by noon and collapsed – and I should perhaps have stayed that way. I did not, a previous engagement called for me to be at The Geese by 1.30pm for a roast. I made the slow descent down Muesli Mountain in pain – but a quality lunch, a bloody mary and sauvignon blanc did the trick and reminded me that although the flesh is weak, the mind is both willing and able.