Eggs, bacon… CONDOMS!

I got dumped just before Christmas.

Actually, dumped is not quite the right word, suggesting that we were an official couple in the first place. I think a more accurate description is PIED.

The deed occurred at about 2am, sat opposite one another at the tiny kitchen table in his flat. We’d just come back from a ‘do’ at the local pub – a civilised gathering, with a few friends, a few drinks and a pianist playing Christmas tunes – and were both a little on the tipsy side.

Actually, again, ‘tipsy’ is not quite the right word here.

Having spent the entire evening downing free shots of tequila with the barman (who at one point attempted to LITERALLY PICK ME UP, before staggering backwards under my colossal weight, like a removal man carrying a grand piano, and falling on top of me) I was completely and utterly pole-axed.

Matters were not helped by the fact that I had, throughout the course of the evening, managed to acquire myself a tambourine and had taken to loudly bashing along with the pianist, to the horror of those around me, and hollering out ‘Jingle Bells’.

‘It’s just not working for me, Gabs,’ said Rob,, staring awkwardly at the floor and shakily trying to light his cigarette.

‘Oh don’t worry, I’ve got another one!’ I beamed merrily back, reaching in my bag and handing him my lighter.

‘No, not that. I mean this. Us. It’s just not working for me anymore.’

There was a moment of silence whilst I digested this information.

‘Is this about the tambourine?’ I whispered, horrified.

‘No it’s not about the tambourine. I don’t know what it is really. Things were great at the start but… the thing is, I kind of miss my ex.’

That was enough for me.

‘WELL IT WAS LOVELY MEETING YOU I’M OFF TO GET MY TAXI NOW CHEERIO BYE!’ I gabbled, knocking over my chair as I made a desperate bid for the door.

Rob caught up with me as I stood shaking and panting on the pavement outside.

‘Gabby… you don’t have any shoes on.’

I looked down at my bottom half. I was wearing a leather skirt and patterned tights, with my big toe poking out through a hole in the left foot. Like a hobo out on the pull.

I still to this day don’t know where those FUCKING SHOES went, but after ransacking the flat from top to bottom, neither of us speaking as I tried desperately not to cry/throw up/punch something, I eventually got into a taxi without them.

The floodgates opened on the journey home (the horrified Uber driver even pulled over, found me a napkin to blow my nose on, and gave me a pep talk about there being ‘plenty more fish in the sea), and continued well into the following morning.

‘What’s wrong with me, Mummy?’ I sobbed down the phone, whilst pouring gin straight down my throat. ‘Why does this keep happening to me? I feel awful.’

Mother offered her usual Enid Blyton style of advice.

‘I know what you need,’ she said. ‘Some fresh air and a banana!’

‘Mum, I don’t really think -‘

‘Tell you what. Why don’t Dad and I find you a nice chap to date down here, whilst you’re home for Christmas?’

‘NOOO!’ I screamed, before recovering my composure ‘I mean, no, no, that’s very kind of you, but -‘

‘Now just hear me out before you POOH POOH the idea. I know you don’t think much of the men here in the Cotswolds, calling them ‘backwards’ and ‘turnip diggers’ and whatnot. But if you opened your eyes a bit I think you’d find some real humdingers!’

‘I don’t want a humdinger.’

‘You need to branch away from these selfish actor/comedian types. Find a man with a CRAFT. Like a vet… or a boiler fitter!’

And so, on 23rd December, at my parent’s new house in the arse end of nowhere, I found myself sitting on the sofa, on Tinder, bottle of red wine in hand.


Thirst aid

‘No, no, no,’ I muttered as I swiped left, trying not to shudder at the selection of men carrying pitchforks, posing topless with baby pigs, etcetera.

Having had very trying ten-minute conversation with a young man who, it transpired, knew my parents as he had DRAINED THE SEPTIC TANK IN OUR GARDEN, I eventually admitted defeat and fell into a drunken stupor.

I was awoken by my mother mere hours later.

‘MORNING!’ she cried, blasting into my bedroom and throwing open the curtains. ‘I thought you’d like a bit of a lie-in.’

I looked at my phone. It was 8am.

‘Now then, are you still coming with me to Tesco’s?’


Going to a Tesco superstore is a traumatising experience at the best of times. A Tesco superstore on Christmas Eve is like entering the zombie apocalypse. Parents screaming at children (‘PUT THE BARBIE DOWN, SHAKIRA! PUT IT DOOOWN! LET’S SEE WHAT FUCKIN’ SANTA BRINGS!’), old ladies blindly ploughing into each other with trollies and a depressed shop worker dressed as a giant mince pie (probably one of my fellow drama school graduates).

As soon as we entered, I could feel last night’s red wine repeating itself on me.

‘Mum, I’m feeling a bit ill,’ I ventured, swaying into the nearest stand of bananas. ‘Can I get a lucozade?’

‘What’s a loofah-blade?’ she asked breezily, before sailing past to fight over some brazil nuts.

Eventually we made it to the till.

‘Look Mum, this one’s free!’ I said with relief, pointing to a totally empty conveyer belt, with young male shop assistant sat behind it.

‘No!’ Mum exclaimed in a stage whisper, glancing surreptitiously into her basket. ‘We can’t go up to a man, with SANITARY items. What will he think?’

‘Yes we can,’ I said, forcefully taking the basket and unloading it onto the conveyer. ‘For god’s sake Mum, Tesco sells cock rings.’

‘Why would anyone want to wear one of those?’ asked Mum, attempting to hide her packet of Tena Lady under two pots of olives.

There was a pause whilst I digested this.

‘Mum… do you know what a cock ring is?’

‘Well I can use my imagination, Gabrielle. It’s a decorative item. Like a toe ring!’

Hideously, Mum then brought up the subject of the cock ring at dinner, to my father.

‘Do YOU know what a cock ring is, Stuart?’ she asked.

Dad shuddered.

‘Don’t, Frances, DON’T,’ he replied. ‘I cannot abide the thought of piercings.’


Christmas passed in a boozy, gluttonous blur (my parents unfortunately still believe me to be a vegetarian, so this year we sat down to carve a BEETROOT PARTY FLAN), until it was nearly New Year’s Eve.

I had made plans, this year, to travel back to my hometown of Cardiff and spent the evening with my good friend Daniel.

(Daniel and I formed a firm friendship when we were in a production of Spring Awakening together, seven years ago. It was a jolly little show – his character had to toss himself off on stage, whilst mine begged to be beaten over the arse with a stick. I don’t think my parents have ever quite got over the shock of it all.)

After catching up over a bottle of gin, we headed into town with two of his mates – Steve and Jonathan. Now, I don’t like to blow my own trumpet and I admit that it is a FREAKISH rarity, but I had a sneaking suspicion that Steve had the hots for me.

I would probably have fancied him back, except that he was mind-numbingly dull and looked like a bearded Lego man.

Having cavorted round the usual clubs and downed several hundred cocktails, by about 3am I was in my usual rat-arsed state. We had, unfortunately, also lost Daniel.

‘FUCK IT,’ I hiccupped. ‘I’m meant to be staying at his tonight. Gonna have to sleep on this bench.’

‘STAY AT MINE!’ cried Steve, popping out from behind a bin. ‘My flat is just 10 minutes away.’

Feeling that this was probably not the wisest of ideas but too drunk by this point to care, I found myself agreeing.

‘Now no funny business, Steven, I mean it,’ I slurred, setting off purposefully in the direction of the taxi rank. ‘I may grant you a kiss… but I am a lady of twenty six and not to be trifled with.’

‘No, no,’ he nervously gabbled, running after me with my coat and handbag. ‘I can sleep on the sofa. Or floor. I’m just so glad you’re staying!’

I must have dozed off in the taxi, as when I awoke we were outside a Sainsbury’s Local. And Steve was climbing back into the taxi with a carrier bag.

‘I thought I’d get us some breakfast stuff for the morning,’ he jabbered, pulling items out one by one. ‘Eggs, bacon… CONDOMS!’


We arrived at his flat.

‘Make yourself comfortable,’ Steve said, flustering around, putting plates in the sink, fluffing cushions etcetera, whilst I swayed precariously in the doorframe.

Unfortunately, I had reached the point of drunkenness where I was not only bad company, but had become somewhat demanding, in the manner of Dame Edna.

‘I WOULD LIKE A GLASS OF WINE, STEVEN,’ I declared, sashaying my way into the living room. ‘Actually, forget the wine, I need a cigarette. Actually no, forget the cigarette, I need a shower. Immediately. I’m too sweaty.’

The poor boy ran me a shower, whilst I stripped off and lurched my way in.

‘You may join if you so wish!’ I shouted through the door, thinking to myself, ‘fuck it, when in Rome!’ Or Cardiff.

Now I am all up for a joint shower. I had not previously experienced one myself, but had watched enough dirty films to know that this was going to be a very sexy and alluring experience.

Unfortunately, Steve owned what is known as a POWER SHOWER.

And what ensued was about the unsexiest shower scene known to mankind.

Clearly expecting me to be stood there seductively sudsing myself in a white bikini, like Myleene Klass on ‘I’m A Celebrity’, Steve entered the shower to face me stood, butt naked, under a boiling jet of water, looking like something from The Grudge.

‘This is nice!’ I shouted over the deafening downpour, trying not to choke as the water ran down my face into my mouth, blinding me in the process.

‘It is!’ he cried, attempting to feel his way towards me, through the thick wall of steam.

I lurched out of the direction of the shower head and grabbed hold of a mini shelf, scattering a load of razors, soap and beard cream onto the floor.

‘I’m going to suds myself up now!’ I cried, bending down and grabbing the bar of soap in what I hoped was an alluring manner, until it violently shot out my hand and hit him in the face.

The whole thing ended with me completely overheating, panicking, then karate kicking my way out the shower door, nearly taking the thing off its hinges.

Poor Steve then had to towel dry me, like a dog, whilst I sat comatose on the bathroom floor, before blow-drying my hair and putting me to bed with a hot Ribena.

I think I’ll stick to Tinder.

G xx

P.S Stay tuned for the release of my first book- ‘LUSH: A True Story, Soaked In Gin’- due out on the shelves July 2018! Available to pre-order now on Amazon (cover to be revealed soon).  I promise you a filthy read.



























Am I dead? I must be.

No human being can physically consume 2 bottles of wine, 5 jagerbombs, 2 mojito’s, 3 tequila shots, an entire pitcher of Long Island Iced Tea and still live to tell the tale.

I feel strangely calm about it all.

‘At least she died doing what she loved’ they will say. ‘Getting off her tits’.

I am ready. Take my hand, oh Lord and lead me through those pearly gates!

Let me feed you grapes and plait your beard. Sit on your lap and confess to you my sins.

(I don’t mean that in a prozzy, lap-dancey sort of way. That would be totally wrong. I mean like innocently sitting on Santa Claus’ lap. A family friendly Santa. Not the perverted kind, where people pay to be put on the ‘naughty list’ and be beaten over the bottom with a candy cane).

Blearily, I peel open one burning eye.

Well I must say, heaven isn’t quite how I expected.

There are no angels, for starters. No fat cherub plucking a harp. No Elvis Presley donning a loin cloth and singing ‘A Big Hunk O’Love’.

Instead, I am staring into the eye of a battered sausage. A half-eaten battered sausage.

Whilst lying spread eagled on my kitchen floor.

Oh god. This is not death. This is something far, far worse.

This is the hangover from hell.


I’m not talking the bearable kind, where you pop a couple of painkillers, untag the photo of you shitting in a bus shelter and head off for brunch.

Oh no.

We are talking the type of hangover sent by Lucifer himself.

The sort where every limb feels like it’s been through a Christmas tree shredder. Like a small family of possums have curled up and died in your mouth. A group of primary school children have just learnt to make scrambled eggs. WITH YOUR BRAIN.

I also appear to be stark bollock naked, bar my ancient pair of Winnie the Pooh pants, which depict a map of the 100 Acre Wood. They are by far the most shameful item of lingerie I own and are only worn in times of desperation.

Oh please, God. Please say I didn’t bring a man home in these. Right now, I have about the sex appeal of a courgette.

I peel my head from the floor and look towards the door.

Mens shoes. Oh god. Big brown suede ones. That will be him. They are bloody huge actually, aren’t they? Like flippers. Maybe I brought back a clown. Or a walrus.

Oh Christ. Did I choose to be rogered in my own kitchen? Perform some hideous striptease for him, wearing nothing but stiletto’s a pair of oven gloves? Bend myself over the hob and demand a good porking?

I don’t know who this man is, or where he has come from but fear it has something to do with the battered sausage.

I sometimes find it hard to believe that life has turned out this way.

I led a very sheltered childhood.

A proper country bumpkin, who’s favourite hobbies included bailing hay and accompanying my father to the rubbish dump.

‘Why would I choose to drink alcohol when I can get FRESH MILK from our very own cow?’

‘You’re all going down the park to do balloons and poppers? Oh goody, I LOVE poppers! I’ll bring the paper hats. And know how to make a balloon stegosaurus!’

‘Sorry Ben, it’s really sweet of you to invite me to the party tonight but Mum’s making me my favourite casserole. With EXTRA DUMPLINGS!’

I drove a tractor . I sang in the church choir. I owned a pig.

I didn’t care much for clubs and would rather make my own fun on a Friday night. Such as farting in the bath and pretending it’s a jacuzzi.

But then I moved to London. And all hell broke lose.

It started with the fags.

I had previously written off smoking as a filthy habit.

‘Why would anybody choose to deliberately knock years off their life?!’ I cried to my mother, whilst she vacuumed the dog.

‘I cannot WAIT to grow old. I can watch Miss Marple. Eat biscuits. And sit on a COMMODE! That’s a chair that you can actually poo in!’.

(As a toddler I used to have daily ‘potty and video’ time. This involved being sat in front of my favourite show, usually Playdays, whilst cheerfully laying a gigantic dump. It remains one of my fondest childhood memories. So the thought that I could go full circle in about 80 years time was all too much).

But at uni, my opinion on smoking started to change. Due to one, small fact:


Like, seriously. All of them.

I soon realised that this dirty, glorious little death stick was my one way ticket to a giant cock fest.

And I was diving in head first.

Being a smoking novice, there were some slight mishaps along the way.

Such as the time I borrowed a guys lighter, locking eyes over the flame in what I considered to be a sultry manner and inadvertently set my fringe on fire.

Or the time I nervously rolled a fag in front of the guy I really fancied, realising too late that I had licked the wrong side of the paper. Therefore making the cigarette baggy and completely un-smokable. Determined not to lose face, I casually took a drag and managed to actually INHALE THE FILTER. As in, it shot straight out the back of the cigarette and down my throat.

It is quite hard to look sexy whilst being given the heimlich manoeuvre.

And then I met him.

They say that love can strike from anywhere. I didn’t believe them till it happened.

Gordon was more than just a lover- he was a soulmate. The ying to my yang. The bean to my burrito.

Someone who warmed me through cold winter nights, lay down with me on hot summer days, and came as my date to every party.

And he went with so much. Tonic water. Elderflower. Orange juice. Cucumber. I’ve even tried him with dried mango, which I would thoroughly recommend.

Ahh that beautiful, strong bottle in that murky green shade.

God, I want my wedding dress to be that shade of green. And my husband’s suit. In fact fuck it, I don’t even want a husband. I will happily walk down the aisle pulling along a bottle of Gordon’s on wheels. Exchange rings. Read vows. Sing from hymn books. Or should I say gin books. HA HA HA.

I’m going mad. I need to get up off this kitchen floor and stick my head in the fridge.

I’m unsure at this point exactly who lies behind my bedroom door, but judging from my recent conquests it will be one of three types of men:

  1. An arrogant suit wanker, who secretly gets spray tans and lives with his mother.
  2. A balding man wearing a yellow anorak and waterproof trousers, which I thought last night to be funny and ironic. But now just realise that he loves wet weather gear. And is planning on taking me fishing.
  3. A genuinely lovely, normal man, who took one look at my 100 Acre Wood pants and ran straight out the door, not bothering to take his shoes.

G x


My best friend is getting married this August.

The fact that we were both born in the same year, grew up in the same town, have had almost identical upbringings yet she is currently engaged to the love of her life WHILST I SIT ON THE SHELF LIKE A JAR OF STALE FUCKING BOVRIL could be seen as a sore point.

But luckily I am above all that.

She has spent the past few months planning her beautiful wedding- I have recently discovered that my breasts float in the bath.

She will be relaxing this summer on a tropical honeymoon beach- I will be on the streets of Shoreditch somewhere, having a conversation with a wheelie bin.


Now then, this weekend was the much awaited Cardiff hen do.


My sole job as bridesmaid had been to book the stripper for the evening (obviously).

I honestly thought that this would be a simple and enjoyable task.
To the point where I could casually flip through a glossy catalogue (entitled something like ‘Pork Sword- May Edition’), survey different photos of ripped men dressed as firefighters, policemen and maybe something unusual like a scantily clad orthodontist and simply point to the one that I liked- ‘I’LL HAVE THE SEXY TIN MAN POURING OIL OVER HIMSELF PLEASE’.

But it wasn’t.

The whole thing felt a bit backhanded and SHADY. I ended up actually texting a few men (called really ordinary names like Paul and Boris, not DONG Juan or Long SHLONG Silver like I had imagined) that I had found on a website (called something horrific, like honk if you’re

It transpired that nobody could actually strip for us, as none of the bars in Cardiff would let them in. Nor (my suggestion) could they strip in the foyer of the 5* hotel we had booked for the evening, whilst I beat boxed in the background.

HOWEVER, unperturbed we ploughed on into Cardiff armed with L plates, garters and a giant inflatable penis that Sarah (the bride to be) admirably carried with her and bummed people with all evening.

The blushing bride

The first half of the night passed in the usual happy blur of shots, cocktails, humping chairs, bitch slapping each others vaginas and sexually harassing poor, unsuspecting men.

The second half got a little… Sticky.

Split up from Sarah and the rest of the group, myself and three friends tried to follow them into another bar-10 Mill Lane, which we were definitely on the guest list for.

The problem was, we had walked through torrential rain to get there and I was at the point of drunkeness where I looked as though my face had melted.

My friend Han had a word with the bouncer whilst I casually leant up against a lamppost, in what I hoped was a ‘coquettish’ position (it wasn’t), desperately trying to control my arm spasms and stop my eyes from wandering off in opposite directions.

Apparently he looked at the guest list, surveyed the state of the four of us and simply shook his head.

‘ALLOW ME’ I demanded, setting off purposefully towards the bouncer, cannoning into several tables and chairs.

‘Good evening, old bean!’ I began.

(I don’t know why but whenever I’m extremely drunk and trying to act sober, I revert into what can only be described as ‘Old English’. I once, after a night out, asked my parents whether they would like me to ‘entertain them with my banjo playing’. We don’t own a banjo).

‘My pals and I were hoping to enter your fine establishment’ I continued ‘in search of a few light ales. Or perhaps shake a wicked hoof on the dance floor. But, BY GINGER! There seems to have been some sort of beastly mix up with the guest list. Could you just be a ruddy good egg and let the four of us in?’

The bouncer shot me a look somewhere between pity and revulsion- ‘No, love’.

It was at that point that I lost it.

‘What are you?’ I demanded ‘A MAN OR A MOUSE?!!!’

(I don’t know where I go this phrase from and hope to god that I will never feel the need to use it again)

The evening then deteriorated further as we headed to Chippy Lane (this is a street where the entire population of Cardiff go at the end of a night for a bag of chips and a fight).

I ordered a light bedtime snack of A KILO OF CHIPS, CHEESE AND GRAVY (just, don’t) with some sort of pasty, which I like to think was cheese and onion but in all honesty was probably corned beef.

Armed with our fortifying and nutritious snacks, Han and I somehow managed to find our way into a taxi.

Here is where I got slightly confuddled- in London, I will always get an Uber taxi. I LOVE Uber taxi’s. I have often toyed with the idea of becoming an Uber driver myself (before my friend reminded me of what a horrific driver I am and how I once followed my satnav blindly and trustingly through a closed wooden gate).

But the beauty of an Uber taxi is that the fare is simply charged to your card, removing the need to pay in cash at the end of the journey.

So as we pulled up at the hotel, I cheerfully leapt out the taxi, slamming the door shut gaily behind me with a cry of ‘THANK YOU KIND SIR AND GOOD NIGHT!’ before cavorting my way into the hotel, leaving the taxi driver shocked and outraged behind me.

The rest of the night was spent trying to order room service but being too pissed to realise that I needed to use a telephone (apparently I was shouting crossly at the menu ‘PIZZA! PIZZA! ‘A PEPPARONI PIZZA PLEASE!’) before finally passing out fully clothed with my shoes on.

Sarah made it back half an hour later, dragging along her deflated penis and proceeded to loudly order a dominos in the foyer of the hotel, whilst rolling deliriously around on the marble floor in her veil and garter.


Apparently the poor hotel porter was so disturbed by the whole event that he promised to personally carry the pizza up to her hotel room just as long as she ‘PLEASE LEAVE THE FOYER NOW MADAM, PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF GOD’.

St. David’s Hotel- sorry, next time we will book a Premier Inn.

Cardiff- If you find my red G string could you please post it back to me.

G xx