I have just come back from a long awaited trip to Ibiza with my favourite group of Welsh girls. Three blissful days of sun, sea and spewing in a bin to the sound of David Guetta.
Is what I would like to be writing.
Unfortunately, the night before my flight, I casually showed my parents the horrific black and blue bruises covering the length of my limbs (‘I can’t be QUITE sure Mother, but I think I may have drunkenly fallen down a wishing well!’) and was promptly dispatched to the doctors.
Here is how my conversation at the doctors went:
Doctor (quite young and very fit): These are severe bruises.
Me: Mmm, yes Doctor. Very severe indeed. That’s a lovely strong pair of biceps you have, do you-
Doctor: Have you been experiencing any chest pain at all?
Doctor: Fainting or dizzy spells?
Me: No, no dizziness. Only when I look at you! Tee hee! I don’t suppose you would like to accompany me to-
Doctor: Any painful flatulence?
Me: P…p… PAINFUL FLATULENCE?
(Cue me going bright red and deliriously fanning myself with the nearest pamphlet, entitled ‘Understanding Your Haemorrhoids’)
‘Doctor, please!! Flatulence indeed! Ha ha ha! A LADY NEVER TELLS!’
It eventually transpired that my balanced diet of gin and jam roly-poly had let me to develop a severe vitamin deficiency, similar to that of SCURVY.
A condition normally sported by SIXTEENTH CENTURY PIRATES.
‘Now then’ the doctor continued ‘I’m afraid that this is going to mean absolutely no alcohol for a week’.
There was a stunned pause.
‘Oh right!’ I replied ‘So just softer drinks, such as white wine, sangria-‘
‘I said no alcohol’.
‘Oh! You mean more like beers, cider, the occasional sherry-‘
And so on Friday night, instead of dancing in the Ibiza sun and getting so off my tits that I become convinced that I’m a piece of battered fish (true story), I spent it in Wales. With my parents. Drinking a glass of MILK.
MILK! On a Friday!! I haven’t drunk milk since I was about 4 years old! My RDA of calcium comes from Pina Coladas and the occasional Dairylea triangle!
I was quite worried that my body would actually REJECT the milk and I’d start foaming at the mouth, whilst my head did a 360. Like a human cappuccino machine.
Having hidden the gin from me (I have searched the house high and low and have come to the conclusion that they must have BURIED it) my parents then took it upon themselves to throw me an equally fun filled weekend… VILLAGE STYLE!
Such rip-roaring activities included:
1. TAKING OUR DOG TO THE VETS TO GET HIS TICK REMOVED.
(By tick, I mean one of those insects that attach themselves to animals fur. He doesn’t have Tourette’s Syndrome).
2. ATTENDING THE VILLAGE W.I CRAFT AND PRODUCE SHOW.
Oh, this was a hell-bender!!
Please find below the programme for the fiercely battled vegetable competition. The thrilling categories include: A SINGLE ONION and THREE COURGETTES.
Hotly followed by category 6, for the hard-core, all-rounder, ‘fuck the system’ kind of woman: A SELECTION OF 5 VEGETABLES.
This was followed by the annual ‘Swede Rolling Competition’- the terrifying sight of 20 farmers hurling 4 stone swede’s down a hill then furiously chasing after them.
(I originally misread this in the programme as SUEDE rolling and completely lost my shit- ‘Oh we’re all going to ROLL SOME MATERIAL ARE WE?!!! OH JOY UNBOUNDED!!!! Let me just get my trusty rolling pin out my bag and JOIN IN THE RUDDY FUN!!!’).
3. A 7AM CAR BOOT SALE
This was a rather terrifying experience.
I had cleaned out my room and agreed to part with several items of clothing and a few members of my beloved cuddly toy collection.
(Even as an adult, I still have a weird fetish for cuddly toys. I will often walk past a selection of stuffed animals and develop this sort of nervous hysteria, like sweating palms and heart palpitations, until before I know it I’m stood at the counter buying 3 teddy bears and a life-size toy sheep).
I had originally laughed when my mother warned me to ‘have your wits about you’ but, dear God, nothing could have prepared me for what ensued.
People started circling the car and staring in through the windows BEFORE WE HAD EVEN PARKED.
At one point a man RAN OFF WITH OUR SCREWDRIVER, claiming casually ‘Oh sorry love, I thought it was going free!’.
However, the most traumatic moment came when I eventually parted with my beloved cuddly toy flamingo, Larry.
I finally agreed to sell it to a friendly looking woman, whom I imagined treasuring him and lovingly cradling him to her breast each night.
I tearfully handed Larry over.
‘Take good care of him’ I smiled at the woman, wiping my eyes. ‘He bought me many years of joy and happiness’.
‘Thanks, love’ she replied, grabbing him ‘IT’S FOR THE DOG TO CHEW’.
I recently spent two nights in Amsterdam with my ultimate good-time girl, Flora.
Flora and I formed an unbreakable bond when we were both fired from our jobs as wine advisors, ironically, for sharing a bottle of red wine on shift.
I’m not sure I can even begin to convey what happened to us in Amsterdam, but I will attempt to explain it in this post.
Having arrived at Gatwick airport at 8am, had a leisurely Full English breakfast and 4 Bloody Mary’s (‘It’s 12pm somewhere, Flora! HA HA HA’) we realised that we were actually cutting it slightly fine for our 10am flight and charged through to security.
Instead of being met by an ACTUAL HUMAN BEING we were made to present our passports to one of those scary robot machines that scans your face.
Neither of us could get through.
‘Excuse me, sir!’ I called to the security man
‘KIND SIR!!!!! Yes, hello. UNFORTUNATELY your machine doesn’t appear to be working, which is a bit of a sticky wicket as we are both VERY LATE FOR OUR FLIGHT. Could you be a darling and let us through?’
The security man took my boarding pass, then gave me a look somewhere between withering and murderous.
‘You’re in the wrong building, love. Your flight goes from the North Terminal’.
‘GABBY, DO YOU HAVE ANY LIQUIDS?!!’ Flora shouted as we eventually arrived at the North, desperately stuffing an array of items into a clear bag.
‘Only my antibacterial hand gel!’ I cried ‘YOU CAN NEVER BE TOO PREPARED!!!’ and sent my bag through on the conveyer.
I was pulled over by 3 members of security almost immediately.
‘Excuse me madam, I need to check your bag for any liquids of dangerous items’ said the rather straight laced, humourless woman.
‘I don’t have anything, I promise!’ I protested, stifling a burp of Bloody Mary.
‘I learned to pack light! I WAS IN THE BROWNIES!’
What then ensued was a tad embarrassing.
One by one she pulled out every item in my bag, including a bottle of shampoo, conditioner, shower gel, hair oil, suntan cream, a gigantic razor, nail scissors, my extremely large ‘travel knickers’ (‘They’re not mine, I promise!!’ I cried) and a row of AA batteries which looked rather like bullets.
Traumatised and shaking, we boarded the plane.
We then sat on it, delayed in the boiling heat, for an hour and a half.
Flora (a nervous flyer) completely lost her shit, pouring my bottle of Evian over her head and shouting ‘FOR THE LOVE OF GOD WHERE IS THE WINE TROLLY???!!’
We eventually set off and I took it upon myself to be the calming influence, murmuring relaxing endearments such as ‘Everything is going to be fine, Flora’ and ‘Oh look a blue tit just flew past!’
The plane rose steadily in the air… Before casually dropping about 40 foot.
‘HOLY FUCKING SHIT!!!!!!’ I screamed, forgetting that I was supposed to be the calming influence.
‘WE CAN’T DIE!! I HAVEN’T SHAVED!!!’
I don’t know what the pilot was on, but I can only liken the journey to the Dumbo ride at Disneyland. At one point we flew completely vertically in the air for what felt like 10 minutes.
The stag- do behind us we’re loving it.
‘LOOK, I CAN SEE THE STARS BOYS!’
‘YOU’VE ALWAYS WANTED TO GO TO THE MOON, JIM! HA HA HA’
Amsterdam Night One
Finally, we arrived.
Flora had booked us a room with a nice young man called Enrico, on Air B&B.
‘Hello Enrico!’ we smiled as we walked in the house.
‘ARE YOU SCARED OF DOGS?’ he replied
‘My name’s Gabrielle and this is- Sorry what was that? Er no not particularly, we-‘
‘BECAUSE I HAVE A LARGE GERMAN SHEPHERD WHO DOES NOT LIKE STRANGERS. YOU DON’T WANT HIM JUMPING UP AT YOU IN THE NIGHT, HE WEIGHS 45 KILOS’
We looked at one another in mutual horror.
‘What I’m going to do’ Enrico continued ‘Is teach you some code words to use for when you come in’
We ran upstairs to our room.
‘I’M SO SORRY, IT DIDN’T MENTION THE HOUND ON THE WEBSITE’ cried Flora.
‘Lets just quickly change and get out of here’
Hastily, we changed into our slutty evening clothes.
‘Oh shit’ said Flora, who had forgotten a bra ‘My nipples show in this top. OH WELL, I’M DESPERATE’
We headed straight to the Red Light District (where else?!) stopping off on the way for a pack of tobacco and Magic Mushrooms.
Flora, who had taken the shrooms before, advised we had a whole pack of the strongest variety each (‘You have the tolerance of an Ox, Gabs’) and also warned me that they tasted absolutely disgusting.
Sat at the bar with a gin and tonic, we cracked them open.
WELL, OF COURSE I BLOODY LOVED THEM.
‘GOOD GOD, THEY’RE DELICIOUS, FLORA!’ I cried, casually eating them by the handful. ‘So light! SO WOODY! I could take these with me as a light snack at the gym!”
Waiting for our shrooms to digest, we started looking around for poor unsuspecting men to pull.
‘I don’t think I can pull anyone tonight, Flora. I haven’t shaved my legs. Unless they’re in to beastiality’
‘Well I can’t pull anyone, I feel MORBIDLY OBESE’ she replied. ‘Is it possible to have sex with your clothes on?’
Having waited an hour, we realised that the shrooms had no effect on us whatsoever- ‘I must just be immune to them, Flora! I did eat a lot of mushroom risotto as a child’
Despondently, we headed to another bar.
But then I suddenly found that I couldn’t stop laughing. To the point where the smallest thing was outrageously funny and I was crying and drooling in the effort to explain what I was laughing about. ‘That light… It’s… It’s…ITS SHAPED LIKE A COCK!!’
And then Flora found she was doing the same.
Then the hallucinations began. OHHHH THE HALLUCINATIONS.
There is lot of the night I don’t remember but I can tell you very clearly that every time I looked at Flora she had a unicorns horn coming out her head.
And whenever I glanced at the spotty bow in her hair, it would set me off on a speel of ‘jungle themed’ hallucinations. The spots on the bow would somehow morph into dancing leapords and then everywhere I looked everyone had either a giraffe or leopards head (this sounds quite scary but I remember absolutely loving it)
Frankly, I found that if I focused on a particular word or object too long then I would see it EVERYWHERE.
‘We need to find some gin, Flora. OHHHH actually don’t worry! That mans FACE is made of gin!’
Having planned on making loads of friends and meeting sexy men, Flora and I spent the entire night walking through the streets linked tightly arm in arm, me wearing my gigantic sunglasses, absolutely tripping our balls off.
We reached a point at around 3am where Flora became paranoid that everyone in the Red Light District was talking about us (it was probably a fair point) and also, rather creepily, became convinced that I was her mother.
I decided I needed to take control of the situation.
‘IVE GOT THIS SHIT, FLORA!!!’ I cried ‘Don’t look me in the eye for 5 minutes. MOTHER NEEDS TO CONCENTRATE!’
I flagged down a rickshaw.
‘Hello young man’ I began, trying not to be put off by the fact that he had the head of a rabbit.
‘We need to get out of here. IMMEDIATELY. We also need CASH and we need CIGARETTES’
Having been cycled out of the Red Light District in a rickshaw to a cashpoint (a blur of shapes and colours) I then saw it fit to withdraw £300 euros (‘We don’t know how much we will need, Flora. We don’t know how much we will NEED!!!) and took us to a kebab shop.
‘Right. Here is the situation’ I remember saying.
‘There is a very vicious dog at home and we need CHIPS to throw him off the SCENT. You will run upstairs whilst I will distract him’
We could hear the sounds of rabid barking as soon as we arrived at the house, but luckily the beast seemed to be shut in.
‘RUBBER BALL!!!!!’ I shouted ‘Shit, what were the code words? FRIENDLY DOG! FRIEND NOT FOE! COCK!!!!!!!!’
Amsterdam Night 2
Deciding that today we should take a more sensible ‘relaxed approach’, we planned on a light lunch, a spot of clothes shopping and a couple of glasses of wine before bed.
Except we only got as far as a shop called ‘When Nature Calls’.
Completely overwhelmed with the selection, we purchased: 2 pipes, a hash lolly, a packet of erotic gum and sex pills (‘When in Amsterdam, Flora!!’), a pack of nos balloons, a box of space cookies and 20 more grams of `Magic Mushrooms.
By the end of the afternoon, having washed down a spliff with our entire pack of space cookies, we had reached the stage of ‘fat, stoned and in the way’.
We then decided it was time for round 2 of the shrooms.
I think this says a lot about my hideously middle-class, Daddy’s girl upbringing but that night I became OBSESSED with Shetland ponies.
To the point where, sat in the toilet, I WAS a Shetland pony.
A very sassy, chubby little Shetland pony.
‘Where’s my hoof oil?’ I called out to Flora in the next cubicle, only half joking.
‘THIS BITCH NEED HOOF OIL!’
The bell for last orders rang in the bar.
‘THAT WILL BE MY CALL FOR THE GYMKANA!’ I cried, galloping and whinnying out the toilet.
The horse hallucinations would calm down slightly, then the slightest thing would set me off again.
‘I can’t believe the shrooms have had this much of an effect two nights on the trot… DID BITCH SAY TROT?!! Ha ha ha ha’
Hiccuping and crying with laughter, we then decided that now would be an excellent time to try the erotic gum and sex pills.
Flora took hers first.
‘QUICKLY!’ She shouted ‘IM SOON TO BECOME VERY HORNY!!’
I don’t know whether it was the gum or the pills, but something had a rather alarming effect on me.
Neither of us could feel less horny if we tried… But I became convinced that EVERY MAN IN THE WHOLE OF AMSTERDAM WAS HITTING ON ME. And I was not happy about it.
‘Oh god, look at that man BRAZENLY WINKING AT ME’ I would mutter in disgust.
‘LOOK AWAY YOU PERV! STOP UNDRESSING ME WITH YOUR EYES!!’
The night ended with me starting a fight with some poor man in Burger King, who I swore was trying to pinch my arse and then returning to the flat where Flora projectile vomited into her Burger King bag, which then disintegrated onto the carpet.
(Unable to abide the smell of vomit, I decided to sleep in the hallway only to be tripped over by poor Enrico at 7 in the morning)
Delirious, exhausted and we arrived at the airport next day- Flora dragging along behind her a heavy sack of clothes, towels and sick, whilst I carried with me half a kilo of cheese that I had drunkenly decided to buy my dad for Father’s Day from the Cheese Museum (the only tourist attraction we managed).
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.
As I say, I’VE MADE MY PEACE WITH IT.
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 horny.com).
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 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.