OK less abstraction, more London (NOT Fashion Week – Bleugh)

Everyone has got a hobby – mine is rapping, Ashley Cole’s is adulterous sex and Leonardo Da Vinci’s was art BUT he was bloody good at his. So when I heard he was in town (well his work was – at the National Gallery) I decided I had to go….

Entry was going to make the box on a Thursday night look like Annabel Chong, so we  decided we’d have to get queueing at 6am. On a Saturday.

My friend F and I devised a guest list and some basic queue rules – no boozed up booze hounds, no well slept latecomers and no moaning. Our team was 6…me, my dad and four mates.

Shaking with flu I turned up to assume position. We were excited – our ‘passion’ for art had taken us home from the pub and had rung alarms at a time that is only civil for flights. We were told we were in the corridor of uncertainty – people would go in and we would queue.

Noon came and we had made it to the very front, bar Amy (some unbelievably annoying American woman who felt it necessary to talk us through her pregnancies. She was trying to get up the duff again with my dad, but he’s a no ticket no sperm kind of guy)

So there we were sneering at those behind us and convinced that we were a SURE thing when the unimaginable happened. ‘No more tickets, sorry!’

Turned away…

We were queue failures or queue masters who just queue for nothing, depending on which way you look at it.

We had rung on the doorbell of culture and it had turned Matt Cardle up full volume.  There was only one thing for it – to get very drunk.

N.B. The queue did have greater rewards for others. Two of my friends decided that they could make serious dosh selling bacon butties. I thought it was queue banter but no, they came back every morning at 3am and did exactly that – 2 grand! They also witnessed someone getting a blow job in the queue…. so there are, it seems, some winners.