All kinds of merriment was had at last Saturday night's Halloween jaunt to The Sugar Club. It's always fun when behaviour like trashing a venue with toast, rice and party poppers and screaming lines like "Get your tits off the tank, bitch!" are acceptable, if not encouraged. The crowd was awash with excellent homemade costumes in the forms of Chilean miners, blood soaked nurses, Sweeney Todd and fantastic Dia de los Muertos ladies. Not a Playboy bunny to be had, thank fuck.
My own costume entailed a hip flask filled with whiskey safely stowed in my hold-up tights, just to complete the whole Prohibition era dead-girl-about-town look. It also just so happened to empty itself throughout the course of the night. (I'm classy like that.) Free hot chocolate that was kindly handed around by the organisers as we queued outside beforehand found itself magically Irished up, as did several glasses of soda water and lime. Weird. Delicious too.
Also among the crowd of ne'er-do-wells was one Greg Sestero of The Room...er...fame. Relative fame at least. There was a screening of The Room taking place the night after, you see. Billy Flag gave him a shout as he walked up the steps towards the bar and when he looked over at our table and waved, I dutifully squealed and waved both arms in my drunken zombie excitement, because it would appear that I don't do subdued when it comes to The Room.
This is me when we got home, drunk and hiding behind the Bear's camera having realised I had no photos from the night for the blog.
After the show finished and Midnight Burlectro had kicked off onstage, I met a cousin of mine who had descended upon The Sugar Club, and having figured what was on previously, just knew I'd be found there. The thing is, she was there with people from my work, some of whom I was only introduced to for the first time that night. With crazy blackened eyes and fake blood plastered all over my chin. I make one hell of a first impression.