This morning I was greeted by two emails from two friends, and both included photographs. The first was entitled "Kiefer and I" and showed my happy smiling friend arm in arm with KIefer Sutherland at a Reykjavík bar. The latter, entitled "Toilet paper" was a self portait series of Iceland Review's stylist in the toilet of a Reykjavík bar.
Speaking of Reykjavík bars, a friend who's been living in Denmark for most of her life was saying her goodbyes on Saturday night. She'd been in Iceland for a week, partying non stop at Sirkus.
"Can you take me somewhere smart? " she asked me, saying she was sick of places that smelled of piss and vomit. I opted for the posh 101 hotel bar where we perched on slick designer chairs as arrogant French waiters drifted by.
Failing to wear diamanté Gucci g- strings and low cut jeans, we felt rather out of place. " This is too sterile, " my friend declared. "This isn't like a real Icelandic bar. Bring on the piss and vomit smell any day."
So off we headed once again to Sirkus, just in time to witness a man dancing wildly and removing his clothes and then vomiting on the table.
Noone even blinked an eyelid.
AMB ([email protected])