Monday, January 28, 2008

Je pense que je vais mourir.

A resumé of my weekend in the style of an episode of 24. A programme I have never watched nor have any intention of watching. Bear with me.


5pm: Get in the car. Start smoking. Intend to stay this way all the way to Brighton, possibly the whole weekend depending on how my lungs feel.

7pm: Pease Pottage service station. Our weak bladders mean our 90mph trip down the motorway is curtailed. See a car full of indie kids (men) with nice hair. Ask my best friend why I can't get in with them to get to Brighton. Realise their windows are down. They have heard. They laugh, I die.

7:30pm: Get to Brighton. Drive around looking for somewhere to park. Decide on in front of the Volks. Get out. Realise all the wood from the ship that ran aground has washed up on the beach. Say the word epic a lot.

10pm: Go to the pub. Sit outside so we can smoke. See someone getting the shit kicked out of them. See some girl with thigh high boots on. See the girl's bottom as it is hanging out of her dress. A wondrous sight indeed.


12am: Return to flat to begin getting mangled in earnest.

1am: Discuss Foals' decision to not put Hummer on their album. I feel smug and obnoxious. Tell everyone I have the Hummer promo so I don't really care. Feel infinitely cooler than everyone else. Also smug and obnoxious. When asked how I got my hands on it explain I have friends in high places that steal things for me because they know my love of shiny things. Continue to feel smug and obnoxious.

2am: Begin game of, 'Would you rather....' You see Dame Helen Mirren and Dame Judi Dench drowning. Who would you rather save?

3am: Would you rather fart confetti or sneeze marbles?

4am: Would you rather have a fish for a tongue or crab's legs attached to your abdomen? 

5am: Someone suggests going to the beach. Discussion ensues. Discussion mainly consists of everyone taking it in turns to say, "It's going to be fucking cold". 

6am: Finally decide on whether to go to the beach. Go. It's fucking cold. On the way smell a bonfire. Take it in turns to say, "Can you smell a bonfire?". Play with the wood and notice that someone has made a massive cock out of the wood. Lovely stuff.

7am: Decide to go home for a nice cup of tea. Have nice cup of tea. Set the world to rights about the price of the morning after pill.

8am: Pass out. Have 4 hour power nap.

1pm: Get up. Decide I must buy sparkly leggings or the world will end. Now.

2pm: Stood in American Apparel surrounded by sparkly leggings. Think, "Should I buy silver or gold? I wear more silver but the gold look cool." Repeat this exact thought process for 45 minutes. I know this because I listened to the whole of Funeral by Arcade Fire on the instore sound system.

3pm: Decide on the gold. Notice the workers staring at me. Perhaps the most protracted piece of decision making encountered since the dawn of time and God was deciding whether to make Adam or Eve first. Get to the till. On a whim buy a red lamé headband. Not hairband. Headband. 80's style Olivia Newton John style lets get physical style headband. Decide to buy it in 5 seconds flat. Oh the cruel, cruel irony.

4pm: Decide to have an 80's themed aerobics party at some point in my life. Decide I'll be the best dressed 80's aerobic person in the world. Ha! Feel pretty impressed I've found a use for my impulse buy. Have a cigarette to celebrate.

5pm: Attempt to eat. Manage something.

7pm: Have a shower in anticipation for the one year older party. 

9pm: Join the party. Drink too much gin.

11pm: Nibble and suck the ear of party donkey (not a naked man with a large penis. A big toy donkey)


4-5am?: Pass out. I think.

1pm: Wake up in bed with my best mate and her boyfriend. Worry they may have made me partake in some sort of filthy sex game. Survey the bedroom area for evidence of this. Note my breasts have liberated themselves from my top during my sleep. Nothing appears to be out of the ordinary.

3pm: Veggie breakfast coupled with intense newspaper action.

6pm: Watch the Science of Sleep. 

8pm: Commence the journey home from Hell.

9pm: Change trains at London Bridge because First Capital Connect are incapable of running a single train from Luton to Brighton and vice versa on the weekend. Get on the train for home. Consider carrying a permanent marker with me at all times so I can write things like, "First Capital Connect are a bunch of Clarksons", in order for them to have to spend loads of money cleaning it up. (Clarksons as opposed to the other C word. I'm trying to be more of a lady and I feel it sufficiently fills the void. Begins with C and just as, if not more so, offensive. Everyone's a winner)

10pm: Get home. Irrationally decide I must put all my photos on FB right now or the world will end. Put my lampshade on my head for the posting.


12:10am: Pass out.

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