Poor little rich girl. Or something. Who would complain about this?
Who, exactly? Well, me for one. But only because my liver told me to.
Two key indicators point to the fact that it is Summer here in London.
It is currently pissing down with rain. Seriously. Almost hailing.
The unending number of parties and engagements that is the fate of all my media sales comrades. Here are a few in the last week or so:
Network Launch Drinks
I signed Discovery to a new network, Etype, and we had our agency launch drinks at Soho House on Old Compton St. You might call this a ‘corporate hospitality’ career highlight for me: A strange nerd from a coal mining town in Australia got to be a hostess for the freaking Discovery Channel in one of London’s ticketsest private clubs on one of the world’s homo-est streets.
Alex from OMD ended up winning the Discovery video camera I selected as the door prize. We were joking beforehand that I was totally going to rig it to make sure one of the kiwis won it.
Except I didn’t rig it. And when one of the kiwis won I got a case of the guilts. What if someone important had heard my awesome rigging jokes?
You know what cures guilt?
Splendid night. Which I paid for the next night at
Paramount Film Fundraising Drinks
Paramount are our neighbours here in ‘sunny’ Chiswick Park and one of the guys there held some fundraising drinks up the road at a pub I go to all the time.
It was just up the road and I didn’t want our neighbours to think Discovery wasn’t cool so I convinced a few people to show up. Briefly.
I barely spoke to anyone and left really quickly. Far too hungover for a decent night. But still boozed.
After a brief client meeting over some more booze the next day (last Friday), I watched a large fire in central London and then hit the sauce again with some Sydney ladies.
This night took a turn for the late… So late that James managed to meet us in Shoreditch after work even though I had planned to be back in time for dinner.
Then we caught a mini-cab back all the way from East London to Chiswick. In a cab I think was on fire. (Something about fire and last Friday? Weird.) By this stage the only thing keeping me alive is The Blessings of The Most Holy Kebab.
The thing about going out every night and a bunch of lunchtimes for work is that you forget that not everyone lives that way.
So the weekend rolls round and it’s one of James’s few weekends off and he works nights so he doesn’t even get afterwork drinks like normal people and for some seriously unknown reason he likes spending time with me.
And he quite reasonably wants to go to a pub with his one day off. And I groan loudly… Not from (much) laziness but from geniune pain.
And then his giant brown eyes get this look like a war orphan after someone actually dug up Bambi’s mother right in front of him and shot the crap out of her rotting corpse just to make super-sure the bitch was fucking dead.
So we hit the pub. By this stage I am around 70% alcohol. And then we go home and because I cooked the best spaghetti I have ever made (I would put the recipe up but it’s basically ‘buy everything from M&S and cook the sauce in a casserole for at least an hour but preferably longer’) we ended up tucking into voluminous amounts of delicious red wine.
Sunday evening was more booze. This time free and in the company of more friends at Brick Lane. I have now been to Brick Lane five times and been food poisoned twice.
Why do I keep going? At these prices you can’t not play the odds.
Unfortunately the house won on this occasion and I sent myself home from work early. There is one pregnant lady, one guy with a newborn and another woman who actually owns/runs her own creche in the digital team. And it turns out Brick Lane belly presents similar symptoms to the onset of the swine flooz.
Lighter booze load than last week. Only two nights out and one lunch. (One was cancelled.) And herein lies the problem with trying to kvetch about all this partying. It sounds great if you don’t have to do it for work. If you do, you end up getting vaguely close to that prostitute line of spending time with people doing pleasurable things in order to extract money from them.
And it increases your antisociability, because when it comes to weekends and after work, when the people/friends who do want to spend time with you (regardless of the fact you try to sell them ads on a number of quality websites) invite you places, it is the absolute last thing you want to do.
What you really want to do is go home, crawl under some blankets and cry softly while a Jamaican wet-nurse feeds you Aspro Clear from a sippy cup.
Or is that just me?
Incidentally, while looking for the image to top this post I found the one below. It was a close call but the first one was more ‘on message’. However the photo below is simply too awesome not to include.
So I’m ending on it. Media parties are exactly like this: