Vingt Cinq

My God I think I am going to die. It was Anniversaire Celebration: London last night. I seemed to think that I wasn't that drunk however, the queasy feeling I've endured the whole day coupled with a banging headache and people telling me about bits of the night where I was present but certainly can't remember seem to suggest otherwise. Also, waking up in a hotel room with an empty bottle of champagne in your hand also points to the conclusion that a fun time was had by all. 

Anyway, once we'd managed to drag ourselves out we decided to go to Upper Street for some lunch. Obviously I wanted to die. On the way to lunch we were having an upbeat conversation about how you never know who carries weapons these days and how you have to be really careful not to give lip or you might get stabbed in the face and even though people say they only carry it as a deterrent it doesn't take much to lose your temper and accidentally use it. Your normal hungover, Sunday conversation. 

So, we finish our meals and we walk back down to Angel and there's five of us and we're spread around the pavement. Pretty annoying yes. I know. But we were so deep in conversation we didn't really notice. All of a sudden some moron behind us started shouting, "HELLLLLLLLOOOOOOO, HELLLLLLLLLLOOOOOOOOO, WE CAN'T GET PAST YOU WHEN YOU WALK IN A LINE ON THE PAVEMENT"

Well. That was it. I was hungover and therefore a sniff away from anger. I turned around and said, 

"You are so rude. So unbelievably rude. If you had just said excuse me like a normal person we would have moved. Instead you shout like an uneducated ruffian" (Yes. I said uneducated ruffian. I'm such a knob). I then turned to my friend and announced, "And THAT, Dave is why I don't carry a knife."

The irony of the whole situation being that he literally had two steps to go before he crossed at the traffic lights so had he not been so out of order we would never have had our little exchange and he would have got there a whole lot quicker anyway. My friends, most of whom are Northern, were appalled at the debacle and Erin summed the whole situation up with, "I think I'd have a heart attack if I lived in London."

Exciting news - I have my first (well not strictly true but it was about 100000 years ago so we'll pretend that didn't happen. Oh and I drove in Ireland because it's Ireland and no one cares about laws and silly things like that. They all go to the Doctors on their tractors. That's true by the way. My Grandad used to put on his suit and get on his tractor and drive to the Doctor's and then park up in the car park. Beside all the other tractors. I digress. Focus, focus and I'm back in the room) driving lesson. Watch out! I'm on the road! (Probably slowly. Very slowly)

Je suis malade.

Okay guys, we've got a bit of a Code Red situation on our hands here. I'll start from the beginning. A good place to start.

So someone decided it'd be a good idea to celebrate an upcoming anniversary of my birth with everyone I work with in my home town. I won't lie. I was sceptical. I've not been there very long and I have a bit of a reputation as

a drunk

a bitch

and a bitch that hates everyone.

Obviously, it's all true so I'm not overly bothered but I put forward the argument that if I hate everyone why would I want to sit and look at their faces. I was promised a lot of alcohol. I was sold.

As a bit of background the last time I went out with these people I got horrifically drunk and fell over. Obviously I can't fall over out of nowhere. What actually happened was I jumped on a guy I work with pretending we were in Dirty Dancing. However, when he attempted to put me down I wasn't having any of it so I ended up on my back (insert own joke here, I'm far too weary) with a big bruise. I have absolutely no memory of this. It is pieced together from various accounts.

So off we go in to town to drink a lot of alcohol on Friday. That mission was accomplished. However, I was reminded of why I hate my home town so much. Having decided that a pair of fluorescent pink tights would set off my leopard print shoe boots very nicely I wander in to the ladies in the pub. A girl promptly marches over to me and grabs me by the arm and holds it very tightly and says,

"I'd just like to say, I think you're so brave"

I know. What a fucking slut. Now, remember, I don't put my brain in action before my mouth so the first thing that comes out of my mouth (as opposed to, Thank you, which is what I think she was expecting) is,

"I've not got cancer"

She was so stunned all she could do was walk away. Ha. I win.

Anyway, having ingested 3 mojitos, 3 blue lagoons, 100 million double gins and 3000 sambukas I decide it is time to go on to the dive I hate to frequent which plays indie/rock music (the best of a bad bunch). However, I decide that everyone I work with won't like it so I turn on them and abuse them. Some choice things I said (apparently) were,

"Fuck off. Fuck right off" - to anyone that attempted to talk to me

and "Oh fuck off Chotain you fucking tool" - when Chotain nicely tried to tell me that my top was coming down and to save my modesty maybe I should pull it up. 

However, first prize for me most definitely was being told the next morning that for absolutely no reason at all I fell over. Flat on my back. Had I not had a pretty dress on and been lying in a street I wouldn't have looked out of place in a pilates class. Fuck.

I really can't tell you much more but the next day I woke up to find various FB messages on my wall. One of which written by a total mentalist (no, he really is) at 4am rambling about how cool and alternative I am. It has since disappeared. He obviously got up, slightly more sober and realised what a twat he is. 

Vowing never to drink again I then accidentally found myself in a pub in London at 6pm on Saturday. It was an accident. 

Un peu de mes choses favories

Sitting in the conservatory with a big mug of tea in a storm

Splashing in fountains during Summer

Getting fucked and chatting shit until sunrise 

Breathing in the sea air

Sitting in a coffee shop reading Neverwhere

Dancing in fields

Reading the paper in bed on a Sunday

Il semble comme un gorille, il était dans la cloture gorille

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. 

Stop all the clocks.

Sometimes people go too soon. And it is really fucking shitty.

Je couche comme je suis morte apparemment

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).

Espace de Conard

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"

to

"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".

In other news: 

www.myspace.com/pinmedown

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.