Boogie Nights

Well Saturday was a funny old day. It was a pal’s birthday and three of us were going to see Boogie Nights at the Kings Theatre in Glasgow at 5.30pm. The only problem was that my party animal friend had only left a party in Edinburgh sometime around lunchtime on Saturday and then got a puncture on the way to Glasgow. She eventually made it to my house where another friend and I had started eating her birthday cake (which we felt we just had to start before the candle finished burning down and melted into the cake) while we waited and waited…….

So, on to Boogie Nights which we make by the skin of the skin of our teeth.

The picture on the left shows Anthony Costa looking a bit unsure about sharing a stage with Alvin Stardust (whose blurb reads 1970’s legend). However on Saturday night he needn’t have worried as our 1970’s legend was “indisposed” and was played by an understudy.

The show itself was a good slice of lighthearted fun with some good one-liners and an interesting twist at the end which I quite liked.

After a nice meal at a place called Elliot’s on Bath Street which was worryingly quiet for a Saturday night in Glasgow, we continued the nostalgia theme by going to an 80s themed pub/disco.

Oh how I remember the 80s. My hair was allegedly permed but was in fact a frizzy explosion. (Today it also happens to be a bit of a frizzy mess but I’m just having a bad hair day). I had an all-in-one electric blue flying suit which I wore with pride with bright red tucker boots and cerise pink plastic beads and bangles. My make up was a mixture of bright blue and bright pink. Oh how cool did I think I looked when in fact I must have looked like a riot in a paint shop. Those were the days. Ah the 80s. The decade that taste forgot. I can still get nostalgic for it though and was most upset when Jon Bon Jovi got his hair cut.

After the pub closed at midnight we still had some serious partying to do. Our party quest took us to Madness on Bothwell Street. Although I don’t mind nightclubs as such, I do find that you can’t hear anything so you can’t carry on a normal conversation so they are not the best places but they seem to be the logical conclusion to many a night out.

As is the norm, I believe, going by the reputation of this club I was duly chatted up by rather a nice chap as it turned out. Everything was progressing most swimmingly until he asked me what age I thought he was. Now most people would think – What age do I think you are? I will now tactfully deduct at least 5 years. Not me! Alcohol + More Alcohol = No Tact Just Honesty.

Well he looked about 40. How was I to know that he was only 36? Needless to say he wasn’t impressed. Any chances of a further date were slipping from my grasp as quickly as the look on his face shifted from pleasure to horror.

He went out for a smoke.

He returned still less than impressed.

Chances of a follow up date? – Currently Nil. He let it be known that he “was quite busy over the next couple of weeks but might be in touch a bit later.”

My friends don’t call me Bridget Jones for nothing.