Balloons, Disco Balls and The Box

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It’s no birthday without some tomfoolery with my chums from back home. The sun was shining down on London taaan and there’s so many good bits and bobs going down around the city at the moment. The first on my agenda was Martin Creed’s exhibition What’s the point of it? at the Hayward Gallery.

I grabbed the ladies from Waterloo and we headed down to the saaath bank to get our culture vulture ooown.

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As you enter you’re confronted with a large revolving MOTHER sign. I became rather anxious that I may be beheaded if I stood up straight.

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‘Blowing a raspberry’ (a speaker positioned in the corner of the room making dubious noises) it made me chuckle the way I would in a silent classroom. The exhibition was full of humour and utter weirdness (a feature named ‘bodily functions’. I will let you discover that for yourself). Unfortunately you aren’t technically allowed to take snaps of the exhibition, I kept being approached by serious lookin’ men in black each time I revealed my SLR – ya just need to be a bit sneaky.

This was my favourite part…

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Creeds intention was to make the audience experience ‘claustrophobia and childlike lightness in about equal measure.’

That sounds about right. We galavanted amongst the balloons for longer than strictly necessary, exhibits like this are there to remind you that all it takes is a spot of silliness to make ya happy – I’m all for it!

The exhibition was poppin’ (wiggles eyebrows). With alarmingly static hair and wide smiles we clambered our way out of the room, returned to 21 year old ladies and took ourselves over to Skylon for some cocktails.

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Feeling a little tipsy, we headed home as the sun set to pop on our glad rags and dancing shoes before meeting the rest of the ladies at The Rum Kitchen for dinner and draaanks. (I apologise for the bad quality of photos from this point onwards!)

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I get all silly when having my photo taken. My lovely best friend Ellen, the home gal of all home gals – who is starting her own blog soon may I add!

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Found on the first floor of Kingly Court just off Carnaby street in Soho, though you feel like you’ve just stepped off the beach in the caribbean just as the sun dips below the horizon, whisked into the glowing shack by the hum of reggae and smell of jerk chicken making your tummy grumble after a long day frolicking around in the sea and sunshine… aaaah, a girl can dream. The atmosphere was buzzing, music was making everyone bop in their seats and the staff were smiley and attentive. I instantly got good vibezzz.

We sunk into our seats and ordered our first round of cocktails. I went with the Rattle Skull Punch – house rum punch, a prefect blend of dark and light rums, juices and spices with a blue wray float chucked in for good measure.

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There’s something deeply satisfying about guzzling a cocktail from a mug, especially one as beautiful as this. It’s comforting and has an air of BADASS about it. After a good catch up, and a sample of each cocktail – many ‘oooohs, mmmmhms and ahhhs‘ were involved, we ordered our food.

I went for the rainbow salad with added jerk chicken. I know, I know salad say waaaa?! It wasn’t your normal salad of sad leaves – it was packed with hunks of juicy mango, avocado, roasted pumpkin, chickpea, sliced red onion, red pepper, toasted coconut flakes, a mild scotch bonnet and lime dressing and a big slab of jerk chicken on top. My kinda salad. Opt for some sweet potato fries too if you fancy, they are truly beautiful.

My new fav restaurant. Perfect for birthdays, dates or just dinner when you feel like letting ya hurrr down.

After a few more cocktails we then strolled down to The Player, having been swayed by the disco ball fish bowl on Rosies blog. Cocktail in a disco ball? With half an orange on fire balanced on top? I THINK SO.

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Entrance is a fiver after 10, the drinks are pretty darn cheap for Soho and plenty of old school bangers to groove along to. I will be be returning.

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To end the night in true 21st styleee we headed down into the blue illuminated alley, behind the large wooden doors and into The Box. Picture Moulin Rouge x 10 with more nudity, madness and Dom Perignon. If you consider yourself the slightest bit prude I would shield your eyes when the show starts – boobs, bum ‘n’ willy will certainly be all up in yo’ grill.

Photographs are strictly prohibited, but I managed to get a cheeky snap of these strapping lads.

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We danced into the early hours, climbed into taxis and fell into our beds as the sun was rising.

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