When indie celebrities go mental at the NME Awards do not accept their invitation to party.
This will continue for four full days and nights and involve visits to salubrious clubs, pubs and brothels in the heart of seedy Soho and oh sooo trendy Hoxton. Partying for such lengths of time is so exhausting you have to imbibe and enjoy more of the special white dust and lashings of the xtra strong booze.
Famous faces flash by in a blurry furry haze and you suddenly realise you are being sick on Robert Smith’s oversized white trainers whilst drinking a pink cocktail through a straw stuck up your nose.
You will take a wee on the White Lies, make Alex Kapranos cry by saying he sounds like Cliff Richard and try to snog that singer out of The Ting Tings – you know, what’s her name? You will also spend an hour pretending to be Purdy out of The New Avengers whilst a bemused MGMT look on.
You know you have reached the definitive time to stop and go home when you loudly boo U2 as they play on the roof of BBC Centre, bottle of Jack Daniels in hand and trousers around ankles.
This extra partying time is all well and good but at some point you need to go back to work and face the ‘absence without leave’ death march.
3 Comments
You leave Ms Ting Ting alone. She’s mine.
Yeah, I forget Nap, you like ‘em thick and northern.
Exactly.