Break stuff

About 24 hours ago I was slumped on my sofa, watching Harry Potter and having an internal argument about whether I could be arsed to go out or not. After all, only the night before I’d been wheeling around Covent Garden on a friend’s fold up bike, full of stupidly expensive ‘Berry Me’ cocktails. This was not conducive to the case for leaving the house.

Nonetheless, I’d told people I would, and once again my unwavering need to stick to my word conspired to put me in a relatively unwelcome situation – in this instance, 20 tube stops up to Tufnell Park. (By the time I got to Angel I’d aged noticeably and remembered with fondness the optimistic days of Stockwell. Ah, Stockwell.)

Still feeling the effects of the night before, I put on my ‘I’m a responsible adult’ cap and tried to capitalise on my hangover by ordering a round of shots for the group. They in turn followed suit, and once we were suitably swimming in Jaeger bombs we decided to head to Camden, where we ended up in a fairly middle-class hipster-dwelling ‘rock/alternative’ club with aggro door staff, heart-stopping prices and far, far too much crap, jingly-jangly indie music. At this point I’d missed the last Tube home, so I had no choice (NO CHOICE) but to just ‘go with it’ until everyone else had had their fill of vacuous London nightlife.

And then my sodding phone broke. Again. (Don’t know if Vodafone is aware of this apparent defect with the HTC Desire-Z but they sure as Hell do now after I reigned molten fury down on them this morning). Not only did this put me in a bad mood because, well, broken shit puts me in a bad mood, but as I became increasingly annoyed with my friends telling me, ‘Hey! It’s just a phone. It’s not that bad!’ (note: it is that bad. I need the stupid piece of crap for my job) I couldn’t even huff off for a fag lest I lost them and then I’d be screwed. And by all accounts north London was not the place to be on your own last night.

But it was okay, because then the music picked up, and hark! A mosh pit started. I appreciate that mosh pits are not generally regarded as a night out staple for 26 year old professional females, but neither is clumsily wheeling around one of London’s number one tourist spots on a bike screeching, ‘OUTTA MY WAY. I’M DAAAAANGEROUS’. So here we are.

And here is the big sad. I’ve been au fait with mosh pits for about 12 years, and despite some fairly dubious incidents (getting my chain mail bangle – yes, shut up – caught in some enormous metaller’s beard, for example), I’ve never sustained injuries greater than a couple of bruises. Amen, System of a Down, Korn, Black Sabbath – I’ve survived them all. And yet it was in an indie club in a posey part of London, dancing furiously to Rage Against the Machine in order to express my angst at losing an expensive consumer electronics item (my pain is so real) that I sustained my first ever mosh pit injury. I went down, and while someone picked me up almost instantly, they weren’t quick enough to prevent the steel toe-capped boot of an enormous, hapless flailer kicking me squarely in my ribs. Snap, crack and oof.

We left shortly afterwards, the situation compounded by a seemingly endless, excruciatingly painful, trek around London looking for the right night bus, which of course could have been avoided entirely if only my God-damned phone was working.

Oh Harry, why ever did I leave you?

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