Drinking with Julian

So, I was down around Knightsbridge, hanging out with Julian Assange at the Ecuadoran embassy over the weekend, being a drunken buffoon and making a general ass out of myself.  I don’t think he’ll be inviting me back around anytime soon.  This is the third time I’ve acted up at a party he’s hosted!  My only prayer is that the American foreign press don’t catch wind of this – poor Jules might be fucked this time if he’s associated with my antics.

one of the girls passing out flyers before the party (photo courtesy wiseupforbm)

Which would be a shame, because it culminated in a really great Saturday morning.  The two lesbians who talked me off the step-ladder I was using to piss into the laundry room sink, and convinced Julian, who had phoned me up with great enthusiasm but now wanted me ejected, to let me sleep it off in one of the other guest rooms; these same pretty girls were now in their terry-cloth robes rubbing sleep from their eyes and setting out toast and jams on the table in front of the television.  Some cable channel was on, showing re-runs of “Fresh Prince” with Spanish subtitulos, and we’re having coffee.  I’m still quite drunk.  Actually, when I woke up, there was one of those drinks carts in a corner of the room, the kind with the two wheels on the back and the mirrored top, and I had a large bolt out of whatever bottle had been most full.  That’s right.

They were gorgeous girls, really.  I was quite lucky that they had showed up late in the party, just as I was fading in and out and starting to black out totally and finally.  Without them, even before I was found pissing in the sink, a few of the embassy staff had already been trying to get my home address from someone, in order to push me onto the curb and into a taxi.  They had no idea who I was.  That I was completely broken down.  I had been childishly screaming at my girlfriend right out in the street earlier in the night on Bayswater in front of the Notting Hill crowd, in front of a friend of ours no less, shouting about hunger, betrayal or some weird shit.  Already drunkenly circling the drain.

We arrived at the other end of Hyde Park late.  I put on a sartyr-like face for the crowd in the main room, glad-handed Jules and the others.  Then I raced to get beyond merely drunk.  I knew I wasn’t paying for any of this, so I imbibed with abandon.  The crowd was mostly art types and fringe dignitaries, a few queers.  A few spoke other languages.  I tried to mingle.  The host offered me drugs, some crazy club shit you drank, and another you snort, both from the same tiny spoon; I accepted greedily.  I probably tried to kiss a few people, with certainty offended quite a few, this being my forte during such trips to the bottom.  Bottoming out.  It’s how you know you are getting fed up with yourself.  You just stop caring.

Anyway, then these two angels showed up.  I guess they were Ecuadoran, right?  I lounged with them for a bit through one or two episodes, snacking on toast and dropping more booze in my coffee.  At one point, I got up to use the restroom, and instead of coming back in to the parlour or mentioning anything, I just left through the back door onto Basil Street.  I made sure to grab a six-pack of beers from the refrigerator first, by way of gratitude, which I drank on the way home.  One of them broke on some train tracks along the journey.  I was changing platforms, one just slipped out of the cardboard, rolled a bit.  Mind the gap.  Just a complete fucking lark.

At one point in the evening, I had my arm around Julian’s neck in one of the smoking rooms, and I asked him about his mom’s new koi pond.  She just had it put in last month and had apparently been having a hell of a time getting the pH levels and whatnot sorted out.  And he just rounds on me, ‘Don’t ask about my mum, a’right mite!’ but he laughs about it real loud, and then his face just gets all serious real quick.  The blood is still pink in his cheeks, like the afterimage of a camera flash.  We kind of stare at each other like that for a little while making bulldog faces, I can’t make out if he’s still joking around, but too afraid to ask if he isn’t.  Then the joint’s back in his hands, and he’s turned away to talk cheerfully about some new comic book with someone else.  Jesus, we all had quite a bit of unhealthy steam to blow off this weekend, didn’t we?

I just hope he’s not too sore about my behaviour.  Poor guy’s got enough on his plate as it is – I think I’ll pop onto moonpig, get him a card by way of apology.  Oh, and another for that Cuban diplomat whose wife or girlfriend or whoever I was getting grabby with.  And I might as well include a few for the embassy cunts; oh, an Assange party can get so costly so quick, do you see?