Music was banned long ago, there won't be any 'rocking' here

You know you're going to have a good Saturday night when one of three things happen:

- drunk men accost you within two minutes of entering a pub and then talk, nay slobber into your ear, about how 'all women are dirty lying whores'

- a man in a ironic tracksuit top (although how ironic something made out of polyester can be is debatable. It's not exactly on par with a Jane Austen novel for classic irony) takes a surreptitious-but-not-quite-surruptitious-enough picture of your cleavage within five minutes of arriving at a club

- a posse of men come and stand near you and then proceed to start a, frankly homoerotic display of behaviour that culminates in a dance off where two of them strip down to their pants.

Of course, being me and living my life (which I think I have established a loooong time ago is a SHAMBLES) all these things happened. Now, drunk men are always going to come and talk shite when they spot a group of lovely ladies. I can cope with this. Not all of them are then going to proceed with a diatribe about how all women are 'whores' but, to give him his due, as a chat-up line you have to give it 10 out of 10 for originality.

Now onto the picture taker. As someone with a 'handsome pair' if I wear a low-cut top I understand the unspoken contract I enter in to with regards to men leering at the 'goods'. If he'd have politely asked to take a picture I, admittedly, would have told him where to go but still, it would have been nice to be asked. There's nothing quite like feeling violated by a stranger to get you in a good mood is there?

As for the homoerotic displays of machismo, in a interesting twist for an indie disco (where every single person there of a Caucasian persuasion is so pale it can look like the beginning scenes of a zombie flick) both of the stripping boys looked fake-tanned up to the nines. Which makes one wonder if it really was as spontaneous as it appeared.

It was still a good night though. Mostly due to my bad-girl-in-a-Bobby-Darin-flick inspired outfit (well, that probably only pleased me and tracksuit man) and intentionally (*ahem*) bad dancing saving the day once more (it's amazing what literal interpretations of lyrics in dance form can do to liven up a night out). Oh, and they played 9 to 5 by Dolly Parton. The joy I felt at hearing the opening bars of that song is the sort of moment that money can't buy.

The following day I had NOT ONE BUT TWO roast dinners made for me. Having not actually had a proper meal in about two weeks (I keep forgetting to eat, time has a way of escaping me these days) it was pretty damn sweet. First mom for lunch then Farr for tea (although Nic, you wouldn't be happy - it was Quorn roast. Yumyums says I). As rainy Sunday's go it don't get much better than that.

Elsewhere in Sazz Land, I'm starting to think I might be sick and wrong in the head. I laughed all the way through Final Destination 3. Apparently I was the only person in the cinema that thought it was a comedy :-/