THE WEDDING

A bloke I work with was incredibly kind enough to invite me to his wedding on Saturday, which was the day I flew out of London so everything was incredibly rushed.

It was my first Hindu wedding, though I had always hoped that Desh’s wedding would be the first one I would ever go to but I can’t wait forever can I?

It was great seeing Bhavin in his get up (I apologise about my comment about the fancy dress party thing. It was a joke) and all his friends and relatives getting fired up with dance and song. The bewildered looks of the English golfers strolling across to the 13th hole was quite amusing.

The priest or Maharaji was bloody good. His style screamed Baby John Burgess and his hypnotic chanting was not unlike an auctioneer at the yearling sales. The difference being he was marrying off two very lovely people who are very much in love and not selling horses to Arab Sheiks for the sport of kings. (Dunno where I was going with that)

The three hour ceremony was chock full of symbolism which I must admit went entirely over my head. You know that romantic stuff. Taking seven steps and seven vows, walking round a fire four times while having stuff thrown at you. That’s all I got.

The food served at lunch was magnificent and being Gujarati it was all vegetarian. If all my food tasted like that, I would also forgo that dirty, cholesterol filled worm-infested meat in a heartbeat. If there are any Gujarati women out there looking for love and a man with a stomach please email me. Alternatively, if anyone knows a good restaurant in Shanghai if they, could email me as well it would be much appreciated.

My only regret is not being able to go the reception for the hoe down and THE FOOD (Oh my God the food!) and not being able to thank Bhavin for the invite personally as I had to high tail it to Heathrow to catch my flight. Good luck mate.

THE PUNTERS

I’ve got to say that the boys did a sterling job of making sure I got to Browns for my last shindig. Before the night was over I found myself swaying in front of the podium with a half drunk scotch in my hand wondering what the hell I was doing there while also debating whether to hurl or not. Anyway, three dancers later we were gone. It was a largely unsatisfying experience but it HAD to be done. Tradition is a bitch. When I’m in these types of establishments (It’s in Shoreditch if anyone’s interested) for some bizarre reason I always find myself looking at the punters as opposed to the ladies on stage. It’s like going to the football and watching the crowd instead. Maybe I’ve been going to too many Fulham games.

The Leaner

Despite of or probably because of the no touching policy enforced by the 7 foot tall black guy. This fella will lean over the railing trying to get the closest look at the stripper’s bits as possible without physically touching her. He plays a very dangerous game.

The Snake Charmee

This guy is seemingly hypnotised by the stripper’s crotch. The problem is even worse in Thailand where the girls can actually play the flute.

The Warhorse

The grizzled veteran of many a strip bar. It no longer titillates him and he now only goes out of habit. He’s the saddest man there.

The Camper

Everytime you go there, he’s there. Mind you, he’s probably thinking the same thing about you.

The Geezer (specific to the UK)

Boys from Essex. Suited and booted. Nuff said.

The Ethnic

I love these guys. They have just come from India and it’s the first time they’ve seen a naked white lady or perhaps any lady. Their reactions are reminiscent of Eddie Murphy in “Coming to America”. A huge shit eating grin followed by “I luv America!”

The Japanese Businessman

I often get mistaken for this fella. The JB is assumed to be a pervert and to have serious money (A stripper’s delight). My only problem with this is that I’m not Japanese.

The Invisible Man

The bloke you go with who suddenly disappears because of one of the following reasons and usually for both of them.

He’s been paying for private show after private show because he enjoys the extra intimacy (haha)

He’s been kicked out for touching.

THE FAREWELL

This made me piss my pants the other night at my farewell drinks.

Peers came out of the toilets shaking his head and ashen faced as if he’d just seen the loch ness monster.

“Dubya has a massive tool. It’s ginormous!” he announced.

“What the hell are you going about P?”

“I’m in the men’s taking a piss when I hear Dubya come in. He goes into a cubicle changes his mind and saunters over to the urinal two down from mine. He pulls his todger out and holds it in his hand. Looks across to me and says “Have you seen one like that before?” He moves over too the urinal next to mine and says “Go on then, have a closer look”.

“It was enormous! I feel thoroughly inadequate”

I'M A VEGETABLE!

Today I am a vegetable. Possibly an over ripe banana. Okay that’s a fruit. Yellow on the outside and mushy on the inside. I had a massive Saturday night which has unfortunately left me in a partly vegetative state. All I am able to do is suck food through a straw and blink yes or no answers to monosyllabic questions.

Let’s recap what happened. I had a few drinks at Beach Blanket Babylon in Notting Hill for Britney’s birthday and all I can say is wowser! It comes complete with a greasy haired maitre de who greets you at the door with a hearty “good evening” in an outrageous french accent and incredibly stunning waitresses who have probably never heard the phrase minimum wage in their entire lives. Despite the boner value it’s a little too pretentious for my liking.

Off to Notting Hill Arts Club. This place is really fucking cool and we boogied away to classic rock and reggae. Congratulations to Britney on remaining standing at the end of the night despite the obligatory alcoholic torture one is usually put through on their birthday.

Not content with the queasy feeling in my stomach or the dry retching it was off to Camoflauge in town. It was shit. I had clearly been lied to by the fellas. Full of students and even more students. Time to stumble home.

LEST WE FORGET BAMBI'S MUM!

There’s this incredible new show on the BBC on Sunday night’s called Planet Earth. It’s packed with incredible footage of deer migrations over the frozen arctic tundra, elephant herds roaming the african Serengeti and even little bunny rabbits doing bunny things. I love watching them as they remind me of the constant struggle between life and death that takes place in the world we live in.

Despite how many times I’ve watched nature documentaries and witnessed the horrible inevitable conclusion of when a big animal with sharp fangs and claws chases after a smaller animal with big brown eyes and soft fur I just cant help rooting for the little fella. The fluffy bunny, the Bambi like fawn and the Dumbo lookalike. This usually leads to the following conversation. “I bet you a fiver he gets away” as the lion stealthily approaches the herd of antelope. My mate snorts “You’re on!” and before I know it I’m handing over a fiver as the lion rips an antelope into a thousand bloody pieces.

I’ve got to stop gambling while watching nature shows or at least bet on the lion.

BILLY GOATS!

Okay I didn’t really want to have to comment on this but I feel that I must due to the unwarranted levels of conjecture and rumour mongering. It was a guy in Sudan that married a goat. It wasn’t me though I do thank you for the many messages of congratulations.

I don’t know about you but I feel sort of sorry for the guy. I’m sure it wasn’t his fault. Loneliness with a touch of Sudanese moonshine (that stuff is potent) mixed with three teaspoons of temptation would have been more than enough to warp his concept of socially acceptable behaviour. Some people blame the devil. Some people blame the education system and others blame carbonated drinks with high sugar levels. I like to think its much more sinister than that. I blame the animals. Their big brown eyes, their soft curly fur……erhm I digress.

All animals should be culled at this instant. A world wide genetic breeding programme should be immediately put in place to create Dr Dolittle style Pushmepullyou versions of all the animals in the world or maybe just the cute ones. I’m pretty certain nobody’s ever tried to hump a lion.

Imagine it. Two headed ducks, two headed sheep, two headed cattle and more importantly two headed goats. As far as I could tell despite watching Dr Dolittle at least twenty times Pushmepullyous do not have any obvious orifices. This would guarantee an immediate drop in bestiality across the world and thus hopefully negating the need for the BBC from printing this type of garbage ever again. Is this really newsworthy? Don’t forget the the environmental benefits. Less orifices mean less methane gas which means no global warming.

Too quote a infamous pop star “Billie Jean. Let’s do it cause I believe the children are our future”