London Party Princesses Pt. 1: Sleeping Beauty
There is a malady as old as time itself. On the academically correct and factual e-pages of the Urban Dictionary, it can be learned that Partyanimalitis is:
A disorder causing one to excessively party like a party-animal. This disorder may impair the logical part of the brain (or completely deplete it) thus causing its subject the desire to party regardless of health, relationship, or mental issues. Heavy drinking and dancing all hours of the night are known symptoms.
If you’re a Londnr, you won’t have to ransack your poor brain to think of such a friend, for they thrive in abundance in our city. If you’re a Londnr, you may very well be afflicted yourself. One victim of said woe was the Party Princess Aurora.
Aurora fit The Scene of the Night like an Herve Leger fits a luxury prostitute; and you would have been hard pressed to find in this lovely creature any kind of fault. Beautiful, she was. Hilarious, rest assured. Scholarly, indeed. Graceful… To a certain point.
You see, Aurora had been cursed with a rare case of Narcolepsy – highly at odds with her FOMO and ADHD, causing in her a confusing amalgamation of comatose frenzy. But this was no normal case of the sleep inducing condition; regular day – to – day activities did not trigger in her a need to sleep, nor was she swayed horizontally by her tedious working hours. She could even withstand a boring conversation! The Sleep only occurred when shitfaced, in impossible locations.
Now hold your scorn, ye who dare say: But is this maiden just passed out? Aye, your words ring true. But how often can you pass out before it becomes a disorder? A condition? A story?
In the dark forest of the London nightlife, the alternatives for where she could rest her head were endless, overwhelming. There were the usual: restaurants, house parties, cars, floors and pavements. No problem! A true connoisseur, she also nurtured more exotic tastes: on top of tables made out of glass through which she would crash. Headfirst into plates of food (ice cream or Confit de Canard being distinct front-runners). The Opera. Piles of garbage. Piles of anything for that matter; she don’t discriminate.
But there was one place she favored above all; The Nightclub. Like Tutankhamen in his tomb, she fell into the dampened couches of glamorous institutions as if they held all the promise of a Hästens bed. And just like King Tut had been wrapped in those magical balms and rags, said to radiate powers of protection; she too had been encircled in a mysterious shroud of shelter from all those wishing to perturb her sleep. Aye, she had drunk from the chalice of wisdom! This wisdom enabled her to correctly pick her moments:
In Ibiza, she snoozed while others went full retard to the tunes of Luciano. To Beat, she returned weekly for a quick nap in between Cuckoo and home. During the film festival in Cannes, she fell asleep listening to Johnny Cash’s Folsom Prison on repeat. In the middle of a Rick Ross performance (Ross’s security removed her from the premises.) So what remedy could there be to overcome this problem?
Historically, it is said that true loves’ kiss will awaken the sleeping beauty. This method has been tried and tested by many a suitor of our here princess, but nay, to no avail. It is simply fable and a load of bollocks; rapey kisses will land you in court, or in hell. Optimistically; both.
The one thing that may help? Quakers, doctors and spiritual leaders have agreed upon the solution; a friend.
Only a true friend will stand the test of time. Only a true friend can break the magic circle to summon your spirits from the bygone, wake you and take you to bed where you belong. And only a true friend will guard your magic circle with the ferocity of a dragon guarding a treasure, because that what you are; the most treasured friend.