In the grim future of hello kitty, there are only scary goth pubs.

Silly lioncub. I'm sorry you bottled out. We were easy to spot: we were the fabulous, charming, geeky, non scary ones. (I have pictures to prove it, too. honest.) The ones who weren't wearing deathmetal tshirts (though spiregrain was wearing a rather fetching overclocked shirt. When I arrived, things were still pretty quiet. The decibels were restrained, and the place was not heaving. That said, I still stood around, clutching my pint and looking gormlessly at people, trying to play spot-the-noder for a while and failing to notice Iain's handy-dandy everything2 sign.

You missed sushi and noodles and speculations about the body-painting perks of making the X-Men movie. You missed helpless giggling at cover versions of Britney Spears songs, and good people watching (there were some insanely awful fake tans amidst the goth pallor). You missed people writing obscene messages on postcards, and a fine outburst of Father Ted quotes. There was a lot of beer, loads of chatter, a huge amount of trivia, and a great deal of relief when the only real silences were caused by loud music and failed attempts at sign language.

And all the rumours about fondue and dizzy dancing the tango down the middle of Wardour Street while gnarl accused tourists of being soy-powered monkeys are, well, just figments of my over-soaked imagination.

Do say you'll come along when we get together again...