Ice cream headache
Aug. 26th, 2012 11:20 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
millionreasonsYesterday, to Chin Chin Laboratorists of Camden Town for ice cream made in front of you. They put the custard base (in this case, blueberry flavour) into a machine and then add liquid nitrogen to freeze it and stick green tea peanuts or caramelised pretzels on the top for crunch. Walked it off up Haverstock Hill to Keats House. I was less interested in the odes to various fauna and tableware than the house itself, which is a lovely old Georgian villa, although I did enjoy reading the guestbook to see how many people had written: "A thing of beauty is a joy forever" (three). You could buy a copy of Keats's death-mask in the shop for £80.
Later, to the Mucky Pup to see (hear) the drummer-percussionist from Pavement play a DJ set. The Pup is a funny old place, it's just behind Angel but it is an archetypal anti-Islington pub. It's the sort of place where a bar staff job interview would involve questions about tattoos. The toilet (singular) is awful. Every horizontal surface is sticky. There are men who have welcomed Kevin Smith as their personal saviour. I imagine a lot of "Jack" gets served. I don't know if there's a jukebox but if there is, then One Direction will not feature on it. The bar snacks are twiglets, pickled eggs and pork scratchings. It's a lot of fun.
Thingy from Pavement makes some odd choices (Galaxie 500, Robert Wyatt, Joy Division), but he gets the crowd jumping to straight-edge hardcore, not least his fluffer who just stands next to him all night, whooping. Claire has her photo taken with him (Pavement guy) and bursts into tears. Neil spills some wine on my leg and tries to lick it off. Someone at the end of our table takes his shirt off and hits his friend who gives him a hug. I have to leave at midnight before I turn into a drunken pumpkin.
Later, to the Mucky Pup to see (hear) the drummer-percussionist from Pavement play a DJ set. The Pup is a funny old place, it's just behind Angel but it is an archetypal anti-Islington pub. It's the sort of place where a bar staff job interview would involve questions about tattoos. The toilet (singular) is awful. Every horizontal surface is sticky. There are men who have welcomed Kevin Smith as their personal saviour. I imagine a lot of "Jack" gets served. I don't know if there's a jukebox but if there is, then One Direction will not feature on it. The bar snacks are twiglets, pickled eggs and pork scratchings. It's a lot of fun.
Thingy from Pavement makes some odd choices (Galaxie 500, Robert Wyatt, Joy Division), but he gets the crowd jumping to straight-edge hardcore, not least his fluffer who just stands next to him all night, whooping. Claire has her photo taken with him (Pavement guy) and bursts into tears. Neil spills some wine on my leg and tries to lick it off. Someone at the end of our table takes his shirt off and hits his friend who gives him a hug. I have to leave at midnight before I turn into a drunken pumpkin.
