It’s noon on a beautiful sunny and warm Tuesday and I’m floating in and out of sleep on the 159 bus travelling form Oxford Circus homeward bound to catch a couple of hours sleep before work behind the bar tonight.
My eyes, heavy with night time make-up are hidden behind a pair of aviators. My legs, last night clad only in back denim hot pants are now pulling less attention with the adage of some black tights. Finally, my leather jacket is zipped up tight disguising the fact that I am wearing nothing else.
See, a couple of hours ago, before reality reared it’s ugly head, I was living the dream. I was on the roof of a posh and cool rock n roll hotel in Soho, Jack Daniels in one hand, smoke in the other, kicking back in a steaming hot tub with a couple of my mates wearing my spandex slut all in one leotard as a swimming costume. And now here I am, oh how the mighty fall.
How did this come about? Let me rewind to a month back when I get an email off a certain Mr. Milas, editor of U.K Metal Hammer magazine. He wants to know if I still have my SIA licence from my days as a bouncer and if I’m still up for doing some door work. Alas no is the answer to both these, although I’m intrigued.
Turns out he is looking for someone to do the guest list at the Golden Gods after party who has experience of working the door, won’t take any shit off blaggers and knows who is who with regards to industry and bands. Interesting. Especially since I am usually one of the blaggers, and had every intention of being one this year too. That said, I’m pretty much sorted for both the awards and the after party and have been looking forward to the night for months so am loathed to miss it cause I’m stuck outside on my own playing Nazi girl.
Anyways, after much to and fro regarding venue, pay and time of job, I humbly accept.
It will be held at The Embassy club in Mayfair. Touch. I will not be standing outside on my own missing the party of the year. This venue is laid out so that I will be standing right next to the outside seating/ smoking area so loads of people will be around me. The pay is a third of my rent. Nice. And the hours are 10.30 pm to 2 am, so I will be able to catch some of the awards before I start and the after party will still be in full swing when I finish. Sweet!
So for the following month I tell as few people as I can get away with in a bid to not lose all my friends and not end up hated by everyone because no, I will not let you in if your not supposed to be there my friend, I cannot fuck this up. I wont get paid, I wont ever be asked back, I definitely won’t be able to blag it in next year and I will be held accountable for fucking up a very expensive and important party.
Before I know it, Download festival is out the way, I have for the most part managed to keep the task ahead under wraps. There were a few close calls, a bus journey found me involved in an amusing yet simile awkward conversation with possibly the worst groupie in London who is also quite possibly a bit psycho. She revels in telling me how her and her equally skanky mate are getting in to the awards and will blag it in to the after party no problem. Mean while I revel in the knowledge that no love, you won’t.
Over the Download festival weekend I got the chance to verify how I should run the door with the people at the top and the level of trust I have been given is slightly disconcerting. Oh fuck I am so gonna end up letting the power go to my head and be a right arsehole. Shit. Note to self, play nice.
The morning of the awards and I’m fast asleep having only got back from the Download festival at about 5 am. The washing machine is on, I shower, lie in the bath, dress like an eighties hooker and hit the hotel where Lady Starlight is staying to complete my transformation in to guest list girl.
The Earache massive are waiting for us in the lobby bar and we convince them that we have to get a cab all the way out to the O2 Indigo venue since we are totally not dressed appropriately for the underground. We are running stupidly late, much to my horror and I have a sinking feeling that by the time we get there all the bloody free Jager will be gone. I knew I should have stuck to my original plans of meeting up with my mates in Soho and travelling down but hey ho, too late now.
Far too late in fact. We are supposed to be in the venue by 6.45 pm and it’s half past now. Fuck. We all finally ready to split up in to two cabs that are not trying to make us wait 15 minutes, charge us 3 times the wack and take 4 years to get there ( no thanks hotel concierge, prick ) and zoom off in to the depths of South East London.
By the time I get in there, the jager is gone, the free booze has been downed by the less tardy of us and I have ooh about 45 minutes before I have to leave and get to the after party to set up. I’m so hating this so far. That 45 minutes finds me trying to cram in getting as twatted as I can without being so to the point of incompetence for work and catching up with all my mates. Who are way ahead of me in the drinking stakes. Gian from The Rotted is there and I’m always over the moon to see him since he is my un-official drinking partner in crime. He is completely munted! What a legend. All my favourite people are there and I’m mega pissed I can’t spend more time with them. As always the main opening question amongst everyone is…’have you recovered from Download’? The main answer being a mischievous knowing laugh accompanied with a suck of air , a possible raised eyebrow and a ‘I might still be drunk’.
I manage to slip in to the VIP bar area in my continued hunt for jager and find a whole heap of mates back there too, sweet! Got some jager too!
As I’m outside smoking a ciggie with some friends the girl who will be assisting me on the door tonight taps me on the arm and so drop everything so I can get the tube with her rather than brave it on my own looking like a tranny.
Next stop, work. Blah.