An evening spent bawling karaoke in Imperial China on Lisle Street, as one of a party of hens. It follows a restrained day at the Royal Festival Hall, and a trip on the Duck (no penis balloons, L-plates or wedding veils, by order of the hen-in-chief). However, as all Japanese businesses know, the combo of karaoke and booze is a great leveller, and any semblance of tastefulness evaporates the minute the first few bars of 'I Will Survive' kick in.
Imperial China has lots of sound-proofed karoake rooms, all full of people submerged in noodles and noise. Walking down the corridor to the toilets is brilliant - bursts of raucousness from each room as waiters emerge. Freddie vs Spice Girls vs Wham. There is no room for cool. The camper the better.
Leave hoarse and drunk, with my ears ringing. The restaurant has a little curved bridge that leads to the street. There are no trolls underneath. Just a pond of big, fat koi carp. In Chinese culture, carp symbolise strength and endurance. These ones look very sluggish. Exhausted by too much karaoke. As am I.
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