Oh lordy.
Anyone remember a brief lived night club in London called the Asylum? It was right near Tottenham Court Road station and lasted about two months before they got shut down for spending all the money on smack.

It had 3 or 4 levels or rock/punk/metal type fun. It was BRILLIANT.

I was there one night, being 19 and shit, with my mates (also 19 and shit) when I noticed the girl. In my memory she was the single sexiest, most beautiful, most amazing woman ever to exist. she was perfection. She was on the far side of the dance floor.

I danced with my mates, and looked at her. She danced with her mates and looked up, our eyes met. The next two songs were the single most exciting time in my young life as she and I slowly and imperceptibly went from "dancing with our mates" to "dancing with each other."

It was perfect, I was astonished, and as the song ended I leaned forwards to ask her something incredibly dashing and suave*.

She leaned in to meet me, and just then "Smells like teen spirit" came on.

The guys behind me cheered, knocking against me, causing me to lurch forward at the hips, which in turn caused a whiplash-stlye forward movement of my upper body. And my head.

I awoke to find myself being carried from the dancefloor by my friends. There was blood coming from my head. I didn't know a lot of what was going on. They sat me down at the bar, and the barman gave me a plastic cup of ice to press against my head. I sat for what I am told was 10-15 minutes, and as I pressed the ice to my head I thought "what happened?". " I was dancing, there was a song, there was a girl..."

Shit. The girl.

Being a gent, I asked for a second cup of ice, and went to find her. Perhaps it would be a funny story we could tell our kids. Perhaps I had not, in fact, headbutted her with terriffic force.

She was not on the top floor.

She was not on the third floor.

She was not on the second floor.

She was not on the ground floor.

She was not in the basement.

Just outside the entrance was a crowd of worried looking teenagers I vaguely recognised. They were her friends. They told me, in none-too friendly ways, that they had been UNABLE to wake her, and that she had departed with a friend in an ambulance. They were getting coats and preparing to follow by taxi. no, they would not tell me her name, give me her number, allow me to apologise or give my number. I could, apparently, fuck right off.

I never saw her again.

M.

_{* I was drunk and 19. Dashing and suave was probably going to be "can I get you a drink?" or "do you fancy a shag?", neither of which ever got me anything other than poorer to the tune of one drink.}
( Mockingbird Practitioner of SCIENCE, Wed 8 Apr 2009, 22:31, Reply)