I moved to London in September 2006. More than 3 years now I’ve spent in this City. Longest I’ve been anywhere in my adult life. And I still love it. To the point where I still love writing about so much of it. But that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t like somewhere else more. NewYorkMeUp.Com? Maybe. SydneyMeUp.Com? Perhaps. HullMeUp? Probably not.

I was on a train recently, stopping through Putney Station. I felt shocked that Putney was a real place that actually existed. “I’d always assumed it was one of those make-believe places like Area 51, Guantánamo Bay, or Hull.” I said. To which a lady across from me suddenly chimed in “Hull exists.” In her Hull accent. Crazy woman, probably on crack or something by the sounds of her. Anyway, I digress... Would I move away from London? Of course I would. If a job came up, if I knew people there. Why not? At least I’d get to have a huge kick-ass farewell party.

So when my friend’s flatmate recently made the decision to move to Paris, these are to my best estimation the thoughts most likely running through her head. Plus, house parties mean cheap booze, shit music, and bad, confined dance moves in kitchens. Try and stop me.

House parties never get started until at least 11-12, so there was plenty of time before hand to join Claire and a handful of her mates in the Vegetarian Indian restaurant Jai Krishna in Finsbury Park. The meal was great, and the company greater, so it came with a little disappointment that I had to leave for a 1-mile, 40-minute journey across (under) town. All meaning I didn’t arrive at the shindig until past midnight, greeting Akin there 10 minutes later who’d also been at another party in Old St that night.

Usually I prefer either to arrive early, get my fill and catch the last tube with a grin on my face, or at most house parties I’ll either carry on until the tube re-opens, or just sleep on the floor. But this was a Friday night, and I have LondonMeUp.Com duties to take care of of a Saturday morning, and so my journey fell into the chain mail hands of the Red Knight Bus.

Upon arrival, first things first, cloakroom (someone’s bedroom). Then to the kitchen. Deposit my £2.99 bottle of urinal cake water at the back of the fridge to be drank after I’m long gone, and the benefactor is too wasted to tell it from Ribena. Then on to find where the Gin’s at. But as soon as I’d spotted its Watering Can Green neck, I got talking to a guy, don’t remember his name... Arjen? Something like that, who was doing Mojitos. Forget the gin, if there’s someone to make me a cocktail on hand, then the beautiful gin can wait (I don’t want it to get too upset at my obvious betrayal). The problem with this Mojito, was that it was in a 2 inch tall plastic cup. Have you tried making a cocktail in a plastic cup? Crushing the ice and mint without breaking the cup and throwing it everywhere? It’s like trying to get an angry bear into a 3-piece suit. Difficult.

So there was I, walking into the living room with my .99p funsize cocktail. First thing I see is Sanne, with a Mojito in her hand. In a glass! After claiming she had the Camilla of Mojitos, and I was slumming it with plastic like Princess Diana in jeans, she’d been convinced into a swap. She didn’t know who Camilla was, or what I was talking about, she just wanted me to shuttup. Bad luck. With my grateful hand now sporting the room’s solitary glass Mojito, I told her that “now I’m Camilla, and [She’s] Diana. She may be the ‘People’s Queen’, but she’s also dead so I’m still kind of one up”, and I saunter away.

There was a strong theme running through the entirety of this party. A French theme. The girl who was leaving, was going to Paris, and she spoke French. In fact most people were either from France, Turkey, Lebanon, or another Franco-literate nation. This meant a lot of the conversation was in French. Sure everyone speaks English, and is friendly enough not to mind accommodating you, but it makes it difficult to dive into people’s conversations. Ultimately left Akin and I to ourselves in our own corner (by the drinks). As the clock ticked past one the majority of the accompanying music became Europop the likes of which I’ve never seen! I was treated to soft rock air guitar, a crime for which stomach pumping levels of drinking is not an excuse.

Shortly after Akin collapsed on the sofa and drifted off into a fairytale-like slumber, I joined him under the pretence of keeping him company. But in truth, I simply welcomed the rest. Bewilderment is a tiring pastime as we’d both learnt. Thankfully there was still enough entertainment to tempt my eyes for another hour. With Sanne, dancing like she expected a disappointing harvest, who would want to leave?

On to about 3. And time to call it a night. With home only a pair of Night Buses away, I did the manly thing and offer out my bed (to Akin. Sanne had a relatively simple 3 hour journey back). With the offer politely declined, I was free to endure the ventures of the 4am bus all by myself. That night’s wares including the “I’m going to make it! I am!” girls. A couple of “Here is a list of my current favourite bands: [Quote from ‘Bands to watch 2010’ NME Article]” guys, and standard mid-30’s clubber, cheese-balling his way through groups of 15 year-old school girls.

Brilliant.