A girl with high expectations: My first night discoing at the discotheques
I came all across the ocean to party, and I better get it done right, UK. Help me out/ beware.
Look at those come hither eyes, beckoning you to dance just like your parents in 1974. Disco can’t be dead if the rich and famous love it! (Which they must, since they are European, and according to my French text book, still use the word “discotheque.”)
The woman wears feathers and dated Jude Law. I bet she is fantastic at the funky chicken. Or, if she’s not, I’m sure (after our casual small chat, when she finds out I’m from Kentucky), she will direct all chicken related questions toward me.
After serenading me with tunes from one of the top five albums of 2007, I stand by my statement that though I have never and never plan to smoke crack on any occasion (despite it being so popular at King’s Cross, in Soho, and in Camden), I would smoke crack if Amy Winehouse offered it to me no question. This is akinned to eating a peanut butter and banana sandwich with Elvis (who Brits LOVE, by the by) or taking insulin with B.B. King. There are certain things one must do for a love of the game, or the music industry and popular culture.
Now, I know Hugh Grant probably has tried not to ‘get pissed’ since his 1995 Elizabeth Hurley-promiscuous lady incident (and he’s 47 years of brilliant hotness). But, Hugh Grant, if you are out there, come to the discotheque with me. You can teach me your fine c. 1982 moves, and I can teach you how much I love you and the quotes from your own movies. Moves, movies, fair trade off. LOVE.
Things I have learned:
-I think I nearly avoided being on a train that was held up by a bandit. No, really.
Answers I still seek:
-Why don’t they make a British Tiger Beat for the slightly post-tween population?
If I met Jude Law or Clive Owen instead of these people I would not consider it offensive,
Lindsey, Princess of Wales
