Lamb Vindaloo Pwns Face
It's difficult to convey the level of hilarity that accompanied us to London's Bangalore District last night. I could try, but I would not be successful.
I'll say it like this: I just woke up, and my ribs are fucking killing me from being doubled over in laughter for much of the night. Although, I may have also been rabbit-punched in the ribs. I can't really be sure.
Reunions abound, my tripmates met up with their European friends on this evening, our last remaining night with no soccer on the menu. So nine of us grabbed a handful of pints together at a few pubs along the way before heading to the famed Brick Lane for a nice big curry meal. Yanks in tow, we followed the lead of two story-telling Irishmen and their cute Aussie friend, Don's country English friend from Brighton and another of Handstand's boys, a former Azerbaijani co-worker. What a PC ad -- the United Colors of Pat Benetton.
Allow me to quickly interject a small anecdote here. Before last night I went the full five days of our trip without smoking the pot, without thinking of the pot, without even much concern for it. And make no mistake, that's a milestone for me: I think the last time I went that long without smoking at least once was before I had pubes (which coulda been when I was around 20). Still, I was feeling really good about this newfound abstinence.
Zebra then informed me that one of our Irish friends possessed the grass, and instantly I remembered what it's like to be a Man of Reefer in a Town of Pints. We became fast friends, and on our way from one pub to the next (still before dinner), he decided to spark a doob for the benefit of Mr. Ace. Again, up to that point, I had not seen it, not asked for it, barely even thought about it.
But within 10 seconds of his lighting the jay, an English policeman on foot coming the other way materialized out of nowhere and turned around, marching right towards us. He had us the whole way, too, sidling up to us and asking us to step aside. Not holding anything, and not having smoked anything yet, I knew I was allright, and I engaged the man with the funny hat in immediate conversation.
He said he smelled the shit, I said "Whaaaaaa?" He said empty your pockets, which I gladly did (knowing our Irish friend had the Motts), and we went on our way with a handshake and a British smile. Of course, nothing bad happened, nothing too bad really could have happened, but it's just incredible that our first run-in with any sort of police interests occurred the very second the first bit of grass entered the picture. Kids, don't do drugs.
Two joints and a handful of pints later, we settled on an empty Brick Lane restaurant and settled in for a traditional Indian meal. And it's a good thing we picked an empty place: Our loudness and obnoxiousness knows no bounds. The tagline of this trip so far has been "Four jerks moving sarcastically through England one landmark at a time" (you'll hear that one again, and possibly see it on a T-shirt), and this dinner was no exception, just more people.
One guy did the full ordering for everyone: Spicy shit all around. We weren't fuckin' around this evening. Don made sure we got some Lamb Vindaloo -- "Lamb Vindaloo always spicy" -- and nearly everyone that sat near it began to sweat from just its proximity. Zebra screamed that his eyebrows started sweating. That's when Handstand the Younger, not a fan of hot or spicy apparently, dug in for a brave bite.
"Dude, you might wanna...," Zebra started. But before he could even finish that sentence, Handstand uttered "Oh my God" as the blood drained from his face. He shot out of his chair, ran over to the door, pulled on it three times before realizing it said "Push" and barreled onto the street where right outside the door he vomited up the Lamb Vindaloo, the rest of his meal and the many pints he'd imbibed.
A worker told him he couldn't throw up there, so he moved into the street where he continued to empty his stomach like I did my pockets earlier. Nothing a sidewalk hose couldn't fix, really. Nothing we couldn't make fun of for the rest of the night, really. Chalk up another victory for the Vindaloo.
The rest of the night involved befriending the owner of a bar that claimed to be a wild boar hunter in Afghanistan, and Handstand heckling the shit out of the taxi driver that took us back to South Kensington. Incidentally, it cost 40 pounds to take six of us back to the flat -- that's $80 to go about the distance from the Upper West Side to Tribeca. Seems fair. Bloody wanker exchange rate.
We're off to Cardiff to peep people running like Welshmen.