I got so drunk I danced to Britney Spears. Not only did I dance to the dancefloor smash, Gimme More (you can just imagine it can't you) I also attempted to dance with some girls that were dancing beside me. They weren't welcoming. They inched away. Very slowly. Probably to really draw out the humiliation.
Then That Dirty Dancing Song came on. And I'm told, yes, told - obviously I can't remember - that I attempted to do The Lift. But I missed. Or he dropped me. Or something. And I ended up flat on my back (insert own joke here. I really can't be bothered).
Then I decided that not content with one night's worth of disgracing myself I thought it'd be a really good idea to crank it up a notch and go out and start drinking at 4pm. Why? Luckily we didn't end up on any sticky dancefloors but I did end up with the word peado written on my wrist and a very long arrow leading up to my armpit. So what can we deduce from this? My armpit is a peadophile. Excellent.
Then this morning my mother decided that I should accompany her to the supermarket. Obviously I couldn't remember that someone had written peado on my wrist so off I went. To a rammed supermarket. Full of families. Hopefully someone was recording reactions for some sort of Chris Morris style comedy montage complete with Bernard Manning.
You know that you really have no clue about how to look after your money when you buy a second hand psp Terminator 3 game to make it in to an earring. Yes. I did that. What a fucking idiot.
Anyway, I've been puking like something out of the Exorcist most of the day so this will probably be brief. I say probably because I really couldn't tell you when the next attack of the vom is coming. AND I'm in the house on my own. I feel rather sorry for myself quite frankly.
This week I mostly.....
1 - Went to the new Larry Clark exhibition (obviously when I say went I mean got taken to the opening because there is no way I am important enough to swing an invitation to something like that. I should be that important though). My chaperone was, as always, delightful. However, did have the misfortune to bump in to perhaps the most irritating person in the world. I know her through a friend and she is in Art PR. I tend to associate Art PR with Paris Hilton because the exact same question about the two subjects springs to mind.......And your purpose is?? I'd say she is lovely girl but she isn't. The first thing she said to me was something along the lines of how are you in here. I know. Put me in my place didn't she. Trollop. Obviously I told her I had friends in high places. I then proceeded to try and be as common as possible to piss her off. My particular highlights were
Telling her about the "massive cock made out of wood on Brighton beach. Fauking hilarious" (Not fucking. I'm far too posh for that sort of language)
Saying that Larry Clark was generally dressed like a scrotum.
Her: Did you just say scrotum?
Me: Yes. It's slang at home for tramp. (Continuing on whilst turning away and saying rather airily...) Can be abbreviated to scrot though.
Once again I used my disgusting addiction to cancer sticks to end a conversation. This time it worked as she doesn't smoke. The conversation ended with her saying, "We'll do something......oh and I sometimes stalk you on facebook." First off, WTF and all that internet shortening geek malarkey and secondly, this is the girl (not feminist. More closing the gender equality gap) that hacked her ex's FB to see if he was cheating or not. You DO NOT want to be told by someone like that that they're sometimes stalking you on facebook.
2 - Went out for one of my favourite lady's birthday. Alas, I was not a complete drunk degenerate but I did get pretty shit faced. To the point where I was told by another girl who I shared a room with that I sleep like I'm dead. Nice.
Thats enough now. I'm off to try and have a little sleepy without being rudely awoken by stomach contractions akin to the pain of when someone is about to squeeze out triplets (or at least I imagine that is how painful it is).
An example of why my life is hilarious in a sort of, "Thank Christ I'm not her sort of way".
Remember Juice Man? No? Ok, brief catch up for those who don't...
Ticked all the relevant boxes - nice hair, skinny jeans, expressive eyes (go on, take the piss. I think its because mine really don't work that I'm fixated on everyone elses) blah blah. Missing the pouty mouth but we can't be perfect you know. Alas he opened his mouth and I very quickly went off him. I'd be doing bananas an injustice if I said he about the same conversational range as one. So I won't. He had the same conversational range as a pineapple.
Friday night and I'm indulging far too heavily in the pub when some indie boy with nice hair walks past. Obviously the radar picks up this subtle but lethal combination. My heart sinks. Yes. It is the Juice Man. And he is headed straight for me. I down my drink and mutter, "Jesus Christ". I introduce him to my friends. A motley crew we made indeed. Me in my disco-tastic sparkly leggings, mighty boosh shoe boots and a bag that looks like a chicken. All my lady friends with cocktail umbrellas in their hair and in various states of sparkliness. Hayley, with a cape on her top. Cow, telling everyone how much we all love the cock through the medium of cocktail menus. The boys trying to pretend they don't know us in their jeans and generic t shirts. You get the idea. A looney bin excursion doesn't being to cover it.
Me: "Everyone, this is the Juice Man".
My friends, mishearing (maybe. I can't be sure): "HELLO JIZZ MAN"
I find this absolutely hilarious and make a mental note to use this from now on. Jizz Man however, does not. In fact, he looks like he wants to kill all my friends. The conversational range of a pineapple AND no sense of humour. Hmm. Twat.
And then begins the, How you doing, What you up to, conversation. In a word, excruciating. I decide to escape outside for a cigarette and start wrapping this conversation up. He smokes. FUCK IT.
The excruciating conversation moves outside. Where there is 20p on the floor. So he bends down and picks it up. I shit you not. To compound the cringeworthiness of this some random blokes shout, "Theres 5p over here you can have mate". He then holds up the 20p to my face and says, "I dropped this. This is mine." One word. Why?
It then transpires his friends have skanked him. I wonder why. He then proceeds to call them cunts. He barely knows me. You can't say that in front of strangers. That is strictly limited to use around good friends who know you have a mouth like a dustbin. For all he knows I could be a nu-rave nun in training. Still reeling from his indiscriminate potty mouth I am then caught off guard when he asks where I'm going next. I tell the truth. God Damn It. The Spanish Inquisition begins. How much is it to get in, when am I going, who am I going with, why am I going and on and on it goes. I start to fear for my nipples in case he uses electroshock therapy on them to get me to tell the truth Pentagon/Meat Safe Murderer style. This exchange means that I tell him that someone has vouchers and we get in for free and get a free shot before midnight.
Him: Do you have a spare voucher?
Me: Er, I don't think so I didn't organise it. I just turn up and drink and entertain everyone.
Him: Right, what we'll do is you'll go in with your voucher but don't give it to the person taking the vouchers. If you get to keep it then you ring me. Then you go outside "for a cigarette" but then I'll be outside and you can give me the voucher and then I'll use it and you can come back in with me because your hand will be stamped.
Me (sensing a fatal flaw in this plan): I don't have your phone number (oh and another thing. I hated myself a little bit when I said it because the wanking prick face knew that I'd say that. Had I not had so much to drink I would have been quicker on my feet and just said ok and then escaped. But I'd had a lot to drink.)
Then I was subjected to the puke inducing swapping of phone numbers. And luckily he then fucked off. I marched in and regaled this complete nonsense of an encounter to my friends. They were most helpful. Responses ranged from,
"Ah, he isn't the man for you. If he picks 20p up off of the floor he'll never buy you expensive handbags and Clinique moisturiser"
"He's still fit though. Neck him"
And then a phrase that was on the front of a birthday card I recently bought a friend came in to my mind, "Better to have loved and lost than to spend the rest of your life with a psycho".
How fucking catchy is Cryptic? I'm sure all the cool, electro kids have been all over it for about 100 years but I'm not a cool, electro kid so I'm still in awe of it. And I'm pretty positive all the indie Bloc Party kids will be all over it soon enough for obvious reasons. Good name too.