I celebrated my birthday at the weekend. Whilst I realise that this was a bit premature given that my actual birthday is on the 14th, I’d always rather celebrate early than late. It's harder to get excited when the day has passed and the cards and presents have all been opened. Then there’s the small matter of Amanda’s birthday falling on the 19th, and her wanting to celebrate next weekend. And the even bigger issue of the 13th Floor Club running on Saturday 9th, which is one of the few down to earth club nights left in London I genuinely enjoy.

Saturday night was no exception, although the feel was rather different from past evenings. For one thing, the night had moved (supposedly temporarily) on to the ground floor of the Albany bar rather than staying in its usual home in the basement. This meant that were more casual drinkers hanging around who perhaps weren’t so interested in the music. Perhaps most strikingly, the choices of tunes were considerably more obvious than they have been at past events – The Kinks, The Who and The Beatles had their share of the turntable time in spades, and there was a special Syd Barrett tribute segment (about which there will be no complaints) which even included the lost but much-bootlegged Floyd single "Scream Thy Last Scream".

David Quantick was also on the wheels of steel for some of the evening, and played a lot of northern soul/ Motown tunes, which was utterly unexpected though perfectly welcome.

In all, it was another fine occasion. I applaud the 13th Floor Club's anti-snob attitude to both dress codes and playlists, which is why I'm so ashamed to admit that I bothered the DJ at one point asking for a complete obscurity. His reaction seemed to suggest that I was deliberately testing him, which I'm ashamed to say wasn't the case at all - it was just my birthday, and I very badly wanted to hear "Grey" by the Hush, and asked him on the offchance he had it with him. Never mind. If he ever reads this, I'd like to make it quite clear that I don't necessarily expect B-sides to flop singles to be in his record box, but sometimes drunken optimism gets the better of me.

I also can't recall most of what I talked to people about, so I'm afraid to say it was probably drunken nonsense again. If I can't get away with talking like that at my birthday bash I don't know when I can, though.

On the way home myself and Jon Hall staggered along talking further gibberish, with him "collecting" phone box cards of post-op transexuals for me on the way as "birthday treats". I think I took them home with me but haven't seen them since, which probably means one of them will suddenly materialise at the most embarrassing possible moment - probably when my Christian landlady turns up at the flat to sort some matter or other out.

As well as those, we managed to pick up a copy of the Camden Chronicle, a fantastic local periodical that runs marvellous, exciting stories such as this one:



I would honestly have thought that there is more going on in Camden (home to the stars!!!) than Kenneth Williams' old bass player tripping up on a paving stone. It all reminded me of the Fall's song Jerusalem:

It was the fault of the government
I was walking down the street
When I tripped up on a discarded banana skin
And on my way down I caught the side of my head
On a protruding brick chip
It was the government's fault
It was the fault of the government
I was very let down
From the budget I was expecting a one million quid handout
I was very disappointed

I think I'll emigrate to Sweden or Poland
And get looked after properly by the government

I'll put some "proper" photos up of the night when I get a spare five minutes. It will be behind a locked entry, though, as naturally some people are less than happy about pictures of themselves being plastered all over the Internet just because they happened to turn up to my birthday drinks. Perhaps that's why the attendance was considerably lower this year...

Oh, and happy birthday today to prosepina. The card is in the post, I promise. Happy birthday too to icecoldinalex, although I highly doubt he reads this journal.

I suppose I could mention that yesterday was Siobhan Fahey's birthday (out of Banarama and Shakespeare's Sister) as well, but that would really be pushing matters.... er, happy birthday if you're reading, Siobhan. No hope of that I'd say, unless she's some sort of obsessive vanity googlist.

My birthday drinks went ahead last night as planned, and as predicted the concept of late night drinks at a sixties garage/ psych night did indeed put a few people off. The turnout this year wasn't as great as it has been in the past, but hey, it's not the turnout that matters, it's how much of a good time everyone has. Or how much of a good time *I* have. One or the other.

To be frank, I can't remember much about what actually happened after about 1am, which worries me somewhat. One of the last things I can recollect is being offered a shot of something (I can't remember what it was), rejecting it at first, then downing it, then running back on to the dancefloor. Everything else is a total blur from that point on, and the next thing I can recall is being in a taxi on the way home. According to Amanda I enjoyed myself, though, and didn't upset or annoy anyone. There's a turn up for the vomit-stained drunk books. I also think most people managed to have a good time, although a few complained of the "anorak" choices the DJ made, and tutted when he put on The Eyes.

Anyone who wishes to observe pictures of the event can do so by clicking on the link below. Oh, and I'm assuming it's OK by everyone if these appear in a public entry - if anyone has any serious objections, please let me know and I'll stick the lockers on.

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The day after, of course, has been filled with sickness, a blinding headache, and initially today a slightly croaky voice. Remind me the next time I'm out not to spend all evening drinking bitter, then top it up with shots of Christ-knows-what I'm offered.

We've also had the Rentokil man round about the cockroaches, who must surely be now be on first name terms with us. The flat upstairs has had a mouse and pigeon infestation, and our flat has had a wasp's nest above the lounge window (I'm phobic of wasps, and can't help but feel slightly victimised about that one - why in a "wasp drought" year did they pick on me?). Now there's the roaches, which are apparently of the German rather than the Japanese variety. Amanda had Japanese roaches in her old house in Haringey, and they were huge, indestructable beasts. We used to put them in a glass filled with bleach and watch them swim for twenty minutes before any signs of burning or unwellness kicked in. She also once threw a Thomsons Directory at one, and it crawled out underneath seconds later with no real signs of damage. These German ones are rather less hard - they keel over pathetically as soon as bleach comes anywhere near them, and are quite easily stamped out. However, since they've moved in they've eaten other dead roaches (their favourite food, it seems, is themselves), soap, breadcrumbs, and God knows what else. They hide behind the washing machine then come out at night for drinks of water and midnight snacks. They are quite vile creatures, and I for one will be glad to see the back of them; however, even in best case scenarios they can take weeks to completely wipe out.

So then, on top of reminding me not to spend all night drinking bitter, perhaps I should be reminded not to move into a flat by a market above a dingy restaurant. Ah well.