PP meet-up the THIRD

WARNING: This is a post of incredible mediocrity, as I have spent the whole day doing an essay that I now see in my nightmares, while simultaneously panicking about upcoming exams and work-placement. RUNAWAY! RUNAWAYFAST!

That's right. That's right mofos. Here is the write-up that none of you have demanded, and that even less of you (yes, I know it's theoretically impossible for 'less than none of you' to exist) care about reading.

Pickled Politics, that blog what I read, had a meet-up yesterday, and I went to it. There happened to be civilians ('non-regulars') present and consequently, an equal number of white people and non-white people for once! Though it must be said that the turn-out could have been better... like if the thread for the meet-up had gone up sooner... *coughs and looks deliberately in Sunny's direction*

Sunny, our Lord and Master was of course present. A struggle betwixt his inner Body Clock (set to run on Indian Standard Time) and his better instincts had obv. ensued, as he was only an hour late. He told me to give him a hug as I was staring, half-blinded somewhere in the direction of the sun behind him (I would tell you why if I could work out why myself... For now, t'shall be blamed on a heady mixture of dry-ass brownie (oh, NT, do you know how my heart withered and died with every love-free disintegrating bite of the broken top? The inside was moist. Why then, a top crumbling like old-person foot?), sun exposure, not enough sleep, walking around and being inappropriately dressed for the outdoors. A sausage sandwich may also have been complicit.

So yes, our Lord and Master, living fully and ironically up to his name, commanded me to give him a hug. I lurched to, wondering if by some trick he was going to move and I would end up dangling around his neck like a pendant ( which incidentally, The Libertarian's favourite economist has been accused of being...). The awkward grapple lasted mere seconds, after which I was returned, immensely relieved at having neither incurred nor caused any injury, to TL. The mysterious 'people on the second floor' looked at us from the table, and my sense of irony kicked guiltily in. The Second Floorers were both very slender, probably thinner than me; further down the table, right at the end, were two women of a build closer to mine, who seemed to be enjoying a never-ending meal. Rowenna - the female of our Second Floorers - disposed of them with the polite efficiency of a sort of cross between Uma Thurman's Bride and Mary Poppins. Sonia and I were suitably impressed; then, with TL in tow (of course!) we sat...

... and talked about legalising drugs. Immediately prior to this, Sunny introduced us in customary fashion: 'This is -----, she's a blogger and on Pickled Politics.... What's the name of your blog again? I never remember it.' Thank you, for that demonstration of support, O Great One. 'Get there steppin',' I reminded him sheepishly. TL, Sunny and Sonia then cranked smoothly into action while I sort of tried to arrange my upper body at 45 degrees to the bottom, fuse with TL and generally avoid the suddenly-unfriendly wind. It began with Our Lord telling us about the author of Freakonomics writing another book, which he had brought with him, about being a gang leader for a day. My hood went up. I mentioned The Wire and Ben (with perfect timing and quite possibly taller even than he had been at the previous meet-up) took the piss.

We shifted indoors, and I ended up 'at the head of the table.' However, for a good 10 minutes, I was preoccupied with trying to make myself sufficiently taller than said table so as to be able to feel like an adult whilst conversing like one. I achieved only the former, and only just. I don't know what happens to me at these events. The inner child is awakened, and cries out for satiety. I blame the seats. When you have to fight to keep your chin above the table surface, I tell you, you just can't take discussion of Moldovan election issues quite as seriously as they deserve. Having Ben (who turned out to be 6'3'', and hence the tallest real person (i.e. 'non-basketballer') I have ever met, and that INCLUDES my brothers-in-law) to my right didn't help.

Fighting down the chaos inside, I ventured to make conversation LIKE NORMAL PEOPLE DO, with D-Notice and Ben. However, as seems to be characteristic of every meet-up at the NT so far, a uniquely British band (I think they were blues?) were playing as we tried to have lengthy and intellectual discussions. I say 'uniquely British' because I returned from the toilets to hear the singer bleating 'Too many cooks spoil the stew'. Not the broth - that dodgy foreign word of proverbs and Americans - but stew. Aaah. :-D Neatly-attired old white people sat, enraptured by this lyrical gem, saved from blending into the background by the gentle luminosity of their grey/white hair.

I don't know what happens to me, but every time I'm at the NT for a meet-up, I just want to RUN AMOK. Maybe it's the way I dress. Perhaps my neon-green tights and bright blue miniskirt had somehow infiltrated my bloodstream, and worked their way up to my brain? Lots of old people. With their clutch purses and pearl necklaces. Enraptured to stew. 'Twas all sweetly tragic. Some perverse instinct was urging me to jump on all the tables like a five-year-old and/or draw my rather wordless compatriots into a game of Musical Padded-Stools. Political bloggers are a serious and mature bunch, and I, unfortunately, am not.

Then, I remembered that D-Notice had been regarding me in a perplexed manner and decided to prove conclusively that I am not the freak I in fact am. I made jokes to reassure him and Ben of my (ongoing) sanity. They laughed, and sometimes I even heard what they said! W00t. However, Ben confessed to having read this blog, which was almost enough to make me fall off the tiny tower of scrunched-up Libertarian-jacket, scrunched-up hoodie and Libertarian wallet narrowly keeping me at their chin (if not face) level. Two posts at that. I later revealed to him that I thought Oxbridge people were androids. He then revealed that most of his family were Oxbridge-ites. I conceded that maybe there are some out there who are merely part android. Oh, I learn so much from my blogging associates.

I also tried desperately to complain about the culture of impatience and its effect on blogging to my poor captive audience, whilst wondering what the fuck I was actually talking about. I remember complaining (repeatedly) about right-wing trolls, spelling and syntax (urgh, how original). D-Notice laughed at least twice, reassuring me that the words had left my mouth in the right order if nothing else. Then, contrary to my best wishes, my brain informed me that BIATCH, I was hungry. I tried to continue seeming erudite and civilised as a mental screensaver of different types of cakes began (why? why? I blame that GODDAMN brownie again). Then, the smell of sausages descended. I resisted the urge to bob hypnotically to the wafting scent like a snake being charmed.

Blah blah blah, Sonia told me a lot of very interesting things about hijabi women such as Shelina Zahra Janmohamed (whose book, Love in a headscarf, I highly recommend!). I took the piss out of TL's eating habits to her, and he began to stop having elite political debates, and grin slightly at me. Sonia quizzed him with her usual forensic meticulousness about what he ate. I laughed. Rowenna, overhearing mention of Cambridge, joined us. I asked her about her article on the 'blokeosphere', which I unsurprisingly agreed with, and whether it was designed to elicit waves of absolute nobs proving her point in droves in the comment box. She laughed and explained to the others. I suggested that perhaps such commentators should be diverted towards taking pictures of their penises and posting them in the comment box instead, as that might at least be entertaining. She laughed, but I was serious. Everyone's been going crazy for Susan Boyle on Britain's Got Talent... It's evidently time for another Internet Sensation.

So, to ease the frustration of all them there Cif-ers who think they're a cut above because they post on the Guardian website, I say this: bring it. Bring the cocktasticness. If you still desperately feel the need to invent creative (read: stupid) names for Gordon Brown or froth uselessly about 'ZaNuliarbore,' feel free. You could Photoshop in a little placard with it on, so it looks like your penis is protesting. Or get it in there in some other amusing fashion. Then, send in separate pictures of your faces so that we can have fun matching up the two. I mean, seeing as how you think virtually all the female writers are 'feminazis' who of course can't by definition be straight, why would we laugh? (Er...) The winner can get a brand-spanking new porn career.*

So yeah, Rowenna was a very nice lady, but today I found out that apparently she is only a year older than me, and now I am terrified of her. Nyrone, who was his usual mellow self, arrived unexpectedly and got on like a house on fire with her for what may have been all of eternity, before revealing that he got a job at Al-Jazeera English. Classy! He also praised me for my honesty when writing (and wasn't the only one to do so!). I ended the evening looking into TL's eye and muttering about enchiladas. On the way home, I proceeded to fight hunger by gossiping about Sunny like a harridan of the highest order. I leave you with this, which was delightedly and pointedly brought up by TL and I. Two words: sexy goatee. HILAAAAAARIOUS!


* career not included.

P.S.: I found out what I would be, were I a pop song - and I didnae even need a fucking Facebook quiz to tell me.