Saturday, July 08, 2006
"We indulged in a furtive Qat fuelled embrace.........................................."
Gossip and grumbles with Pizza Girl
The “I was giddy with joy as the cooling wind filtered through my long flowing locks, my white Ipod ear piece pounding the haunting rhythms of “I predict a riot” edition.
Simon my favourite Tuc -Tuc driver huffed and puffed as he transported me up the Dyke Road. His bright green Pedo Cab adorned with the cross of St George looked totally resplendent in the warming glow of the evening sun. Together we greedily chewed on the Qat leaves I had bought on eBay. Simon's rippling muscles gyrated effortlessly as we reached the West Hill summit and prepared to gather speed for our descent into the bright welcoming lights of the Dials. We passed many an expectant reveller, all gravitating trance-like towards the newly installed plasma screens in the Dials’ hostelries. Tonight the might of England's ‘Dream Team’, a certainty to beat the Portuguese, would take their rightful place in the semi-final. What glory, what fun, how SvenGoranEriksontastic!
We gathered speed, a gay crowd of Tin Drummers cheered our going by, Simon furiously ringing his bell, me waving regally. We sped past a packed Red Snapper, then an equally chockablock Tutti Frutti, finally arriving at the historic first roundabout in Great Britain. We certainly raised admiring looks from the tanned Bank Bar revellers; in the golden light we surely looked like we had stepped from the pages of National Geographic magazine.
It was what Brighton summers are all about. To be seen and be seen. I was giddy with joy as the cooling wind filtered through my long flowing locks, my white Ipod ear piece pounding the haunting rhythms of “I predict a riot”. I gesticulated wildly for Simon to go around and around again. We must have done six or seven circuits each time laughing hysterically until we could laugh no more. Simon lent back and whispered conspiratorially in to my ear, “Had I realised he had picked me up in In Queens Gardens and now we were in Dyke Road?”; we laughed until it hurt, I honestly thought I would die. Chris Eubank flashed us as he overtook in his modest black 6x6 cheekily plated KO 1, Tony Udden raced by in his pink bubble car simultaneously giving me a gorgeous smile. Stevie Coogan tooted madly, even a little jealously, as his Masseratti screached past. I took his photo, the strobe illuminating his God given features. I’ll e-mail him tonight poor boy.
Summer evenings were surely made for such delights.
Everybody, simply everybody,was out in the steamy Dials heat. If Clint Eastwood had gone by on a Lambretta I wouldn’t have been at all suprised. Purely magical.
To my left, the Latest Homes food critic was to be seen greedily gorging a Forfars cream puff, to my right Peter and Jordan tried madly to flag us down, but Simon mischievously rode on leaving them both agape. I chortled with mirth. What a picture they made. At that moment Preston and Chantelle were leaving Jasmine’s greengrocery, they called out to me, but we were like a roller coaster, unstoppable, all I could do was to exclaim that I would text them later. Bless.
Eventually Simon dismounted letting me alight outside Cafe Juliette. Once again he refused to take any payment from me. What a sweet thing he is. We indulged in a furtive Qat fuelled embrace. The media darlings from Ricochet TV were leaning from their office windows; to a ‘man’ they applauded and cheered, my cheeks flushed with pride, I was all of a flutter, giddy with gaiety and then Simon like a sun baked Adonis rode off towards Booths Bird Museum. Berry’s
furniture van a brim with modern accessories and design classics drove sedately behind, followed closely by an open top 77 bus full of ‘Buy to Let’ property speculators on a jolly. Guest speaker Julie Burchill lectured them oblivious to the happenings on the street. And happening it was. Juliette's was wall to wall celeb city.
Not since Woody Allen was spotted there two winters back had the Brighton glitterati gamely gathered and not a charity tombola in sight. Pure unadulterated pleasure. The stars thronged like a monarch butterfly migration. They were a roost of starlings, a gaggle of chattering geese, an Equity charabanc. Van-Day. Capron and Barnes. Palmer. Geary and McCartney. Fanshawe. Blanchett. Cleveland. Bell and Trimmingham. Slim. Cook and Ball, and there at its epicentre glowing gloriously stood Uncle Tommy Tinker, the light bulb millionaire. A super straightforward salt of the earth crowd than you could ever hope to meet.
We glutted and satiated ourselves with lashings of hot chocolate, scotch eggs and huge portions of creamy macaroni cheese. The greatest cheer of the night went to Desmond Lynham who was leaving the nearby Melville Road post office. Dessie bless him was heading to Fullertons to do some photo copying and then over to the Good Companions to watch the big match. Regrettably he couldn’t stop for more than a few hours, which was a shame as we would have had so much to discuss.
Life doesn’t get any better than this. West Hill summer of 2006, England’s footballing stormtroopers on destiny’s march to World Cup domination. Qat leaves blowing in the wind. Local restaurants and bars with their cash registers heaving. Estate agents’ SOLD signs were like the West Hill roads UP everywhere. Surely only a festive freezing bedazzling Dials Christmas could match this? What seasonal joy, how positively hossanna bongo.
I can’t wait.
No grumbles at all this month. Come see me at:
Brightonpizzagirl.blogspot.com
The “I was giddy with joy as the cooling wind filtered through my long flowing locks, my white Ipod ear piece pounding the haunting rhythms of “I predict a riot” edition.
Simon my favourite Tuc -Tuc driver huffed and puffed as he transported me up the Dyke Road. His bright green Pedo Cab adorned with the cross of St George looked totally resplendent in the warming glow of the evening sun. Together we greedily chewed on the Qat leaves I had bought on eBay. Simon's rippling muscles gyrated effortlessly as we reached the West Hill summit and prepared to gather speed for our descent into the bright welcoming lights of the Dials. We passed many an expectant reveller, all gravitating trance-like towards the newly installed plasma screens in the Dials’ hostelries. Tonight the might of England's ‘Dream Team’, a certainty to beat the Portuguese, would take their rightful place in the semi-final. What glory, what fun, how SvenGoranEriksontastic!
We gathered speed, a gay crowd of Tin Drummers cheered our going by, Simon furiously ringing his bell, me waving regally. We sped past a packed Red Snapper, then an equally chockablock Tutti Frutti, finally arriving at the historic first roundabout in Great Britain. We certainly raised admiring looks from the tanned Bank Bar revellers; in the golden light we surely looked like we had stepped from the pages of National Geographic magazine.
It was what Brighton summers are all about. To be seen and be seen. I was giddy with joy as the cooling wind filtered through my long flowing locks, my white Ipod ear piece pounding the haunting rhythms of “I predict a riot”. I gesticulated wildly for Simon to go around and around again. We must have done six or seven circuits each time laughing hysterically until we could laugh no more. Simon lent back and whispered conspiratorially in to my ear, “Had I realised he had picked me up in In Queens Gardens and now we were in Dyke Road?”; we laughed until it hurt, I honestly thought I would die. Chris Eubank flashed us as he overtook in his modest black 6x6 cheekily plated KO 1, Tony Udden raced by in his pink bubble car simultaneously giving me a gorgeous smile. Stevie Coogan tooted madly, even a little jealously, as his Masseratti screached past. I took his photo, the strobe illuminating his God given features. I’ll e-mail him tonight poor boy.
Summer evenings were surely made for such delights.
Everybody, simply everybody,was out in the steamy Dials heat. If Clint Eastwood had gone by on a Lambretta I wouldn’t have been at all suprised. Purely magical.
To my left, the Latest Homes food critic was to be seen greedily gorging a Forfars cream puff, to my right Peter and Jordan tried madly to flag us down, but Simon mischievously rode on leaving them both agape. I chortled with mirth. What a picture they made. At that moment Preston and Chantelle were leaving Jasmine’s greengrocery, they called out to me, but we were like a roller coaster, unstoppable, all I could do was to exclaim that I would text them later. Bless.
Eventually Simon dismounted letting me alight outside Cafe Juliette. Once again he refused to take any payment from me. What a sweet thing he is. We indulged in a furtive Qat fuelled embrace. The media darlings from Ricochet TV were leaning from their office windows; to a ‘man’ they applauded and cheered, my cheeks flushed with pride, I was all of a flutter, giddy with gaiety and then Simon like a sun baked Adonis rode off towards Booths Bird Museum. Berry’s
furniture van a brim with modern accessories and design classics drove sedately behind, followed closely by an open top 77 bus full of ‘Buy to Let’ property speculators on a jolly. Guest speaker Julie Burchill lectured them oblivious to the happenings on the street. And happening it was. Juliette's was wall to wall celeb city.
Not since Woody Allen was spotted there two winters back had the Brighton glitterati gamely gathered and not a charity tombola in sight. Pure unadulterated pleasure. The stars thronged like a monarch butterfly migration. They were a roost of starlings, a gaggle of chattering geese, an Equity charabanc. Van-Day. Capron and Barnes. Palmer. Geary and McCartney. Fanshawe. Blanchett. Cleveland. Bell and Trimmingham. Slim. Cook and Ball, and there at its epicentre glowing gloriously stood Uncle Tommy Tinker, the light bulb millionaire. A super straightforward salt of the earth crowd than you could ever hope to meet.
We glutted and satiated ourselves with lashings of hot chocolate, scotch eggs and huge portions of creamy macaroni cheese. The greatest cheer of the night went to Desmond Lynham who was leaving the nearby Melville Road post office. Dessie bless him was heading to Fullertons to do some photo copying and then over to the Good Companions to watch the big match. Regrettably he couldn’t stop for more than a few hours, which was a shame as we would have had so much to discuss.
Life doesn’t get any better than this. West Hill summer of 2006, England’s footballing stormtroopers on destiny’s march to World Cup domination. Qat leaves blowing in the wind. Local restaurants and bars with their cash registers heaving. Estate agents’ SOLD signs were like the West Hill roads UP everywhere. Surely only a festive freezing bedazzling Dials Christmas could match this? What seasonal joy, how positively hossanna bongo.
I can’t wait.
No grumbles at all this month. Come see me at:
Brightonpizzagirl.blogspot.com
Labels: rippling muscles. ipod. tin drum. seven.dials
