THE MORNING AFTER

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.

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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:

ALL THE FIT MEN WERE IN THE SMOKING AREA.

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

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SCURVY

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?

Me: No.

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?

(Silence)

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-‘

‘NO ALCOHOL!’

 

(Yes, that is a Doctor Who dressing gown)

 

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’.

G xx

How To Disgrace Oneself

My parents want to send me to finishing school.

This was made abundantly clear last Christmas, when I unwrapped three books entitled ‘The Bluffers Guide To Etiquette’, ‘Her Ladyship’s Guide To The Queens English’ and ‘The A-Z Of Modern Manners’.

They are a bloody hoot of a read.

I’ve decided to share with you a few extracts of ‘advice’ and how I have managed to reflect them in my daily life.

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Being Emotional 

‘Don’t get sentimental or try to get your man to say something he doesn’t want to by working on his emotions. Men don’t like tears, especially in public places’ 

YES, WELL… Once on a first date, I got rather drunk and emotional about my recently deceased dog, Teddie. Through a series of hideous flashbacks, I remember raising my wine glass and hollaring ‘A TOAST TO TEDDIE!’ before attempting to sing the first few lines of ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone’.

I think it was at that point that I was taken home in a taxi.

Drinking

‘Never get dunker than your love interest and know your limits- a graceful drunk is always alert to the warning signs of impending toxication and ready to go home before an enjoyable evening ends in tears’

HA DE HA HA ROFLS LOLZIES OHHHH WHERE ON EARTH DOES ONE BEGIN.

The time when I sat on someone’s front doorstep with a traffic cone on my head and declared ‘IM A GNOME AND IM NOT GOING HOME’?

Perhaps three weeks ago, when I brought a family of four Hungarians home for a nightcap and a game of charades?

Or maybe the time when I locked myself out of my parents house at 3am and decided to shout up to my fathers bedroom window ‘RAPUNZEL, RAPUNZEL LET DOWN YOUR HAIR!!!’ (my father is nearly bald).

The thing is, I know my limits. I just CHOOSE TO EXCEED THEM.

The instance that sticks vividly in my mind, like a small turd pressed into the pages of my memory, is a night I spent in Buffalo Bar in Cardiff.

I was a most pleasant evening, until my ex turned up, who I hadn’t seen since our break up a year ago.

I mean, I think I kept it together pretty well. Enquired about normal things, such as what he was up to now and ‘DOES YOUR GRANDMOTHER STILL KNIT THOSE ADORABLE LITTLE BONNETS?’

But of course, the moment his back was turned I staggered up to the bar, like a cow on rohypnol and wheezed ‘Make me your strongest cocktail and then BRING ME FIVE OF THEM’.

The next thing I remember is waking up in the girls toilets. It was eerily quiet. Yes that’s right, you guessed it. THE CLUB HAD LOCKED UP AND GONE HOME FOR THE NIGHT. Tables and chairs stacked, the lot.

I was eventually let out by a lovely cleaning lady and then found by my friends an hour later in Burger King, eating a Double Whopper.

Internet dating

‘Choosing your date in much the same way as you pick dishes from a menu lacks the finesse and subtlety of traditional courtship, but it opens you up to a world of possibility unavailable through conventional channels’.

Ahhhh Internet dating. Yes.

After hearing several rave reviews and success stories from friends, I finally succumbed to pressure and joined plenty of fish.com.

They say ‘fish’… I say PLENTY OF FUCKING BATSHIT CRAZY WIERDOS.

I lasted 4 days before deleting my account, mentally scarred from the experience.

The final straw came when I received a private email from a guy asking me to be his ‘submissive’ (I think this was at the peak of the 50 Shades craze)

His profile picture was a man in a business suit, with no head (I mean that it was cropped out, not like a severed head).

Attached to the email was a seven page document listing my ‘duties’ as a submissive, including the line ‘you will be rewarded for sexual acts in whipped cream and vegetables’.

I decided not to meet him.

Tattoos

‘The upper classes normally abhor or shun tattoos. You should do the same’.

Whoops.

Smoking

These days an attachment to nicotine has to be very strong indeed if you are going to stand the social pariah status of the smoker. Do not start’

Whoops.

Swearing

‘The foolish and wicked practise of profane cursing and swearing is a vice so mean and low that every person of sense and character despises it’

Double fucking whoops.

Shyness

‘Shyness can be crippling, especially in the young. Ordinary shyness can be conquered by simply putting yourself into timidity-inducing scenarios and forcing yourself to join in’ 

Somehow… SOMEHOW I just don’t feel that shyness is something I particularly suffer from.

Even as a toddler, I was always somewhat of an ‘exhibitionist’.

My parents have a hideous, HIDEOUS anecdote from my childhood. Apparently, I used to drag my empty toy box up to their bedroom door and sit in it, stark bollock naked. I would then proceed to lie on my back, with my legs pulled up over my head and shout ‘SPECIAL DELIVERY- IT’S YOUR CHRISTMAS TURKEY!’

Till next time.

G xx

MIDNIGHT SAUSAGE

I grew up in a family of vegetarians.

There was actually a stage in which my older brother turned us all VEGAN (it remains one of the most traumatic periods of my life), so as a family we were forced into drinking rice milk and couldn’t eat Cheerios because THE HONEY WAS CRUEL TO THE BEES.

(I should point out that my brother was heavily influenced at the time by his meek, mild, TREE-HUGGER of a girlfriend, who didn’t believe in drinking and used to carry a spade in her handbag so she could dig a hole and shit in the woods. We never quite got along).

Anyway, being a big animal lover, I trundled along quite nicely as a vegetarian over the years. Why would I want to eat a cow? So sweet! SO FURRY! Awww look at that adorable chicken! LET ME PICK IT UP AND GIVE IT A GIANT KISSY!

However, at the age of 20, I left my home in Wales and moved to London.

And something… happened. Something dark. Something disturbing.

It would turn midnight, I’d have sunk a few bottles of gin, when I would start to get these… how can I put this lightly… RAW BLOODIED MEAT CRAVINGS.

It became a dirty secret. Ostentatiously picking off the pieces of pepperoni from a shared pizza, then secreting them in my handbag to gorge on later. Leaving the flat under cover of darkness (If I had owned a balaclava I would have worn it) to get my sick thrills at the local kebab shop.

But things really hit a low point when I went back to my parents house for Christmas and went out clubbing with the girls. Oh that night. GOD FORGIVE THAT FATEFUL NIGHT.

Bursting home at 4am, wild-eyed and smelling of tequila, I cavorted to the kitchen looking for my fix. The meat. WHERE IN THE LOVE OF GOD WAS I GOING TO FIND ANY MEAT?!!

And then it hit me. Freddie. Our puppy. Freddie, our adorable little cocker spaniel puppy. He was in the process of being trained and some meaty, puppy training treats in the fridge (you thought I was going to say that I ate Freddie, didn’t you?)

So I did it. Sat at the kitchen table, I ate Freddie’s puppy training treats. Looking at the packet, they were described as containing ‘meat-based matter’. I can’t quite bring myself to think of what that matter may be.

Morning comes. Mother bursts in. ‘SOMEBODYS EATEN FREDDIE’S TRAINING TREATS!!!!!’ she cries.

‘CHRIST ON A BLUE BIKE!!’ I reply, trying to match her tone and stifle a meat-based matter burp.

Freddie, looking on in disgust.

We never did get to the bottom of where Freddie’s treats went. My suggestion that perhaps Freddie opened the fridge and helped himself- ‘GOOD GOD, THE DOG’S A GENIUS, MOTHER!’ wasn’t met with much enthusiasm.

Now, the fact that I still insist on being a vegetarian has become somewhat of a running joke amongst my friends.

And now of course, I’m going on a bloody cookery programme. Where I shall probably get drunk and ask my date to ‘slip me some sausage under the table’ and promptly be arrested.

G xx

P.S thank you SO MUCH to whoever has followed or liked this blog so far, absolute legends. When I reach 500 followers we are all having a massive party.