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?’

No. NOOOO.

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!’

FFS.

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.

 

 

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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.

IMG_3723

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

Dinner Fate

I am a very poor example of a woman.

I do not sew. I get no satisfaction out of cleaning. I have zero interest in gardening, flower arranging or drawing (unless it’s a large cock on a steamed up window).

I still find farts hilarious and am perpetually told off by my parents for ‘poo talk at the dinner table’.

Shopping bores me. Babies scare me.

I don’t watch rom coms, unless they are worthy of a good perv.

(For example, in Pride and Prejudice when Colin Firth emerges all hot and bothered from the lake with his shirt stuck to him- episode 4, 32 minutes in).

I have the alcohol tolerance of an ox and the mouth of a fishwife. I shall never forget the look on my friends face when I casually described a guys penis as his ‘raging bell end’.

However, the one area where I truly fall short in womanhood is the cookery department.

I hate cooking. I simply do not see the joy in it. My few optimistic attempts have resulted in me tearfully smacking the hob with a rolling pin and having to retire to my bed with smelling salts.

Having grown such a complex about my arch nemesis- THE OVEN- that I had started throwing it dirty looks and muttering ‘bitch’ under my breath every time I walked past, I decided it was time to do something about it.

Did I buy a beginners recipe book? No.

Book myself onto a crash cookery course, perhaps? No, no.

I decided that the only logical solution to my problem would be to ENTER A COOKERY COMPETITION ON NATIONAL TELEVISION.

IMG_3158

The premise of the programme is simple.

A woman is set up on a blind date with a man and must cook him a three course meal, winning him over with her sparkling wit and dazzling culinary talents.

Oh that man. That poor, poor man.

The thing is, I never expected to get through.

When filling in my application form (fortified by several gins and an uncooked pop tart) I made very clear that the sum total of my cooking experience amounted to that of opening a tin of Chappie for my dog.

And that my last date (in a very posh Japanese restaurant) had resulted in me drunkenly flinging a piece of sushi over my shoulder and tying my napkin round my head to do my impression of Mother Teresa.

But they bloody lapped it up.

During my audition, the cameraman laughed so hard that he actually shot tea out his nose and had to retire to the balcony for some fresh air.

Admittedly, I was a little candid with my answers:

‘Describe your ideal man in two words?’

‘MENTALLY UNSTABLE’

‘What is your favourite dish?’

‘Fruit salad. But just the grapes. That have been fermented into wine’.

I think it was the final question that finished him off:

‘How far would you be prepared to go for a first date?’

‘Oh gosh I’m not sure, ummm… A kiss and a cheeky finger perhaps?’

‘…. I meant travel wise’

And so I was shortlisted for the programme.

My first task was to compose a winning menu.

‘I’M GOING TO DO A MEXICAN THEME!’ I announced to my friends at the pub, triumphantly slamming my gin down on the table.

‘Good god, think of the possibilities! Sombrero’s, tequila, pinata’s, comedy moustache’s… What’s not to love?’

‘But Gabby, what food are you going to-‘

‘I could even perform an authentic Mexican dance! WITH MARACA’S!’

Blindly ignoring everyone’s protestations, I proceeded to draw up my menu.

Now if there’s one thing I love, it’s a sexual innuendo. I have the body of a young woman paired with the brain of a pervy Uncle.

One of my most mortifying memories is at a job interview to work as a part time receptionist.

‘Now then’ the manager explained ‘Everyone who works here is extremely busy. I won’t be able to be on top of you 24/7’.

‘SAID THE TART TO THE VICAR! HA HA HA’ I nervously blurted out.

Needless to say, I did not receive the job.

And so, sat with a large glass of wine, I proceeded to write the most perverted menu known to mankind. Which was promptly sent back for being ‘too explicit’.

‘How on earth could you think ‘stick your churro in my chocolate sauce’ would be ok?’ my horrified friend asked. ‘And ‘stuff my piñata?!’

Yet by some miracle, after some hasty editing, my sordid little menu was selected.

I WAS GOING ON THE SHOW.

‘You know what?’ I smiled to my housemate ‘This programme could be the making of me. Not only am I FINALLY going to learn how to cook but there’s a slight chance that I might actually meet the man of my dreams. I think this is the best decision that I have ever made’.

Cue one month later.

WHAT THE BLOODY HELL HAVE I AGREED TO?!!!

It is the night before filming and I am about to have a panic attack.

I have not practised a single dish.

I still don’t know what the fuck a quesadilla is.

The sum total of my ingredients amounts to a bottle of tequila, a piñata and lifesize cut out Mexican man.

The only way that I can stop myself from having a complete nervous breakdown is by watching re-runs of Family Guy, whilst rhythmically stuffing jelly babies up the piñata’s arse.

After a hasty ASDA shop and a fitful nights sleep, where I dreamt that my arms turned into giant burritos, the dreaded morning came.

To start with, I kept it together pretty well.

I confidently arranged all my saucepans on the counter and weighed out the ingredients as if I had a clue as to what the hell I was doing.

Then things got a little… feverish.

With three large lights trained on me and all the windows shut in the flat (to drown out the noise of the sailing club opposite blaring out ‘YMCA’) the temperature in the flat had risen to about 30 degrees. And I was getting a little flustered.

‘I will start by getting my chicken out the fridge’ I smiled confidently at the camera, sticking my head inside for a moments blessed relief.

The thing is, I had never actually handled a raw chicken before.

And it REPULSED me.

I felt my stomach do a worrying flip.

‘I’m going to be cutting the chicken into bite-size chunks for my fajita mix’ I explained, trying to ignore the assortment of black spots appearing in front of my eyes.

I shakily layed out the wobbling monstrosity on the chopping board and stared at it for a few seconds, breathing deeply.

A dark fog started to descend.

‘And now’ I smiled deliriously at the cameraman through chattering teeth ‘I shall slice the chicken with my trusty carving knife!’

Blackout.

The next thing I remember is being hauled up from the chopping board by the director, with a chunk of raw chicken swinging jauntily from my fringe.

The lovely camera team then proceeded to carry me to my bedroom, with a cold flannel.

This is where the further embarrassment lay.

I normally keep my bedroom in reasonably good shape.

But lately, things had got a little ‘slack’. To the point where Stig of the Dump would not have been seen dead in it.

‘JESUS’ the cameraman swore, skidding on an old plate of spaghetti.

Another stifled a small scream at the sight of the very life-like stuffed gorilla sat in the corner of the room.

‘Oh, don’t mind Nigel!’ I smiled, hastily shoving a packet of Wind-Eaze into my bedside draw and turning over a framed photo of me cradling our prized family pig.

I never got to meet my date.

I was instead driven in the back of the film van to the nearest walk in clinic to get my head looked at. (By that, I mean the bump on my head. Not my mental state. Although that is probably something that I should also look into).

I have taken three things away from this experience.

1. I must never again attempt to cook a raw chicken. I am going to stick to what I know- cuddling them, brushing them and thinking up hilarious pet names for them, such as Princess Layer.

2. I am quite possibly a sexual pervert and need to seek professional help.

3. I must hastily retract my application to appear on Masterchef.

G x

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

FAT CAMP

In my first year of college, I gained what is commonly known as the Freshman 15.

Except in my case, it was more like the Freshman 475.

Having been kept on a rather healthy, regimented diet by my mother over the years, when I moved away from home I went slightly AWOL.

‘What is FUN about a fun-sized mars bar? I’ll tell you what will be fun… WHEN YOU WATCH ME EAT SIX!’

‘Awww don’t you just LOVE potato smiley’s? That cheeky, impish grin gets me everytime! DON’T WORRY LADS, I’M COMING FOR YOU!!!’

‘Oh dear, I appear to have put my knickers on backwards… Oh no wait, it’s just that my arse has grown. OH WELL, IT MUST BE GODS WILL! Let me celebrate the nature of the Lord by cracking open this pound of brie!’

Things reached a head when I came home for the summer and one of my best friends Andrew tentatively asked if I was ‘still eating fruit’.

‘Still eating fruit? STILL EATING FRUIT?!! I may be carrying a bit of extra timber Andrew but of course I’m STILL EATING FRUIT. Only last week I had a Terry’s chocolate orange! JESUS!!!’

‘That’s not quite what I-‘

‘I’M JUST CARRYING A BIT OF CHRISTMAS CHEER!!!’

‘Gabby, it’s July’.

So I took myself in hand. Having always been a ‘go hard or go home’ sort of girl, I signed myself up for 5 days at Army Camp. Which was basically intensive Fat Camp in disguise.

Please find below an account that I kept of my ordeal. IMG_2875-1

Day 1

KILL ME NOW.

I cannot move my arms. Or face. I don’t even know if I own legs anymore.

You know how in the novel 1984 Winston is taken to Room 101 to face his ultimate fear of rats? I THINK MINE RIGHT NOW WOULD BE AN EXERCISE BIKE.

We started off in a team of 15 women but three have left already so we are down to the final 12. I am also the youngest by about 20 years.

On the plus side, the staff are all ex-Army men and are smoking hot. At least I think they are. Frankly, it’s a choice between them and a border collie named Albert so the selection is a little limited.

The exercise is horrific.

We got up at 5am (I have never seen this hour sober before) for an hours run, followed by an hours boxing, an hours circuit training and an hours life coaching.

I CANNOT take the life coaching seriously. It’s run by this bat-shit crazy woman called Mary- Lou, who looks a cross between Pat Butcher and a boiled egg.

I spent a ridiculous half an hour with her intensely probing me, DESPERATE to find out some shred of dark, juicy information.

‘So Gabrielle.. WHY do you think that you’re here? Do you think it’s possibly some DEEPLY ROOTED, DARK CHILDHOOD TRAUMA that makes it difficult for you to accept your body the way it is?’

‘Err no Mary- Lou, I think that I’ve just eaten too many pies’.

‘Ahh! Do you think these PIES you speak of could symbolise the PIE OF TURMOIL COOKING IN THE OVEN OF YOUR SOUL, FILLED WITH THE SECRET AGONY OVER THE LIFE THAT YOU ARE NOT FULFILLING?’

In the end, I got so racked off with the whole thing that I blurted out ‘Well frankly, I’m a little constipated right now, Mary-Lou’.

She leapt on this like a fly to shit (sorry).

‘CONSTIPATION!!!!!!!! Oh Gabrielle, I’m so glad that you have finally shared this. This ‘feaces’ that you are holding inside you is your bodies way of clinging on to past regrets and pain! Let it go! Let it go! Let the universe claim back what is rightfully theirs!!’

In the end I asked her to give me a bloody Senakot and leave me alone.

The day ended with 2 hours of ‘team games’, an hour of Zumba and an hours hike.

At the end of the hike a mini-bus came to collect us.

‘OH THANK JESUS!’ I cried, plonking myself in and doing up my seatbelt.

The army men absolutely fell about laughing.

‘No, no love… You’re PUSHING the bus home!’

They were not joking.

Day 2

Went for a 5am run and promptly threw up in a bush.

The army men appear to find my pain hilarious and refused my request to carry me home (in hindsight, they were probably scared that they would put their backs out).

Staff Langley (our team leader) has also changed my name from Gabby to Gobby, which I think is distinctly out of order.

Then followed a monstrous blur of boxing, circuit training (which is seriously getting on my tits now), an ab class, an hours stretching and another 1.5 hours ‘team games’, which involved crawling through the mud with a pretend rifle. I have worryingly taken quite a shine to the rifle training. Probably because I’m fantasying about shooting myself with it. Or Mary-Lou.

The meals are quite nice but TEENY TINY ANOREXIC HAMSTER PORTIONS.

Which is made even more fun by the fact that we have to eat our food face down on the plate, as everyone’s arms are too stiff to move their hands up to their mouths.

Day 3

Can you build up muscle in your fingers?! Because my fingers have most definitely inflated over night. To the point where they are starting to resemble giant clown hands.

It is absolutely sheeting down with rain here. BUT THAT’S FINE BECAUSE THE MORNING STARTED WITH 3 HOURS OF OUTDOOR ‘FUN AND GAMES’!!! WHOOPIE! This involved throwing 10 pound sandbags and chasing after them. Oh, what larks.

There was a distinct air of depression in the room at lunch, so the staff decided to cheer us up with the reward of a ‘dessert’. This caused great excitement. What would it be? Eton Mess? A nice bowl of sticky toffee pudding, perhaps?

Oh silly me! A quarter of an apple and a singular acorn. I kid you not.

The weather brightened up a bit after lunch, so we were taken out on a joyful 23 mile cycle ride.

Staff Langley told us that we would need padded cycling shorts and if we didn’t have them then we would need to line the crotch of our leggings with a flannel or small towel.

This caused great hysteria (we have basically all gone mad with lack of food). One woman came downstairs with a gigantic beach towel stuffed into her trousers and cried ‘SADDLE ME UP LANGLEY, I’M READY FOR A LONG RIDE!!’

The bike ride was actually a hoot. We are talking twelve delirious woman pumping up a hill with our padded crotches, florescent bibs and special ’emergency bells’. I’m sure I heard someone ask if we were out on day release.

Tempers ran high half way through, with one of our team jumping off and shouting ‘I’M GOING TO CHUCK THIS BIKE AT A FUCKING WALL!!!’

One of the army men, Staff Shenton, appears to have taken a bit of a shine to me. To the point where he insisted on cycling behind me the whole way and valiantly pushing me up the hills. I would normally be flattered but frankly I’m too exhausted to flirt and starting to get a bit racked off with him.

THEN, when we stopped for a break he went off and PICKED ME A DAISY!!! Everybody thought it was incredibly sweet. I was nearly sick in my mouth.

Day 4

Oh god. Something rather disturbing happened last night. It was 10pm and we were all walking to our beds ready for the hell to restart at 5am.

I say walking- what I really mean is WADDLING. I have basically become so stiff that the only way I can physically move is to walk in a ‘squatted’ position, like I’m riding a small invisible pig.

Suddenly, Staff Shenton popped out from around the wall and pulled me aside.

‘There’s a pub down the road’ he said in a furtive whisper, his mad piggy eyes darting back and forth. ‘They do an offer… two pints and a pie for ten pounds. Meet me there in half an hour’.

For a second I was too stunned to speak.

‘Sorry’ I spluttered ‘SORRY STAFF LANGLEY? You think you can tempt me out of fat camp…WITH A PIE?!!! Christ! It’s like some sordid Enid Blyton novel! What were you going to do next? Carve out a love letter for me in mashed potato? Lower me out my bedroom window tonight by a string of Cumberland sausages? Leave me a trail of chocolate bon bons leading to YOUR COCK?!!’

Day 5

The end. IT’S THE BEAUTIFUL END.

After the final morning of torture, we lined up one by one to be weighed and measured like prized pigs.

Having not had any mirrors at the camp, it was rather hard to estimate just how much weight we had lost. But judging by my level of fatigue and starvation I was imagining a hell of a bloody lot.

First woman came out- 8 pounds in 5 days. Not bad, not bad.

Second woman- 10 POUNDS IN 5 DAYS. This was getting rather exciting.

By now, I was starting to envisage having to buy a whole new wardrobe for myself. Golly, maybe even I was TOO thin?! Could people actually see me if I stood sideways? Perhaps I will have to go to another fat camp.. To get FATTER!

Smiling dazedly, I skipped into the room and onto the scales.

‘Congratulations’ smiled Staff Langley ‘You’ve lost a pound!’

I’m not sure quite sure what expression I was pulling at this point but I can only imagine it was rather terrifying.

‘I know it doesn’t sound a lot’ he reassured me, looking slightly nervous ‘But the great thing is you are young so will have built up loads of muscle!’

I finally managed to form words.

‘P..p…a pound?’ I stuttered ‘A pound?!!! I COULD SHIT A POUND, LOVE!

‘But Gobby, the muscles-‘

‘I don’t want the muscles!!!! Take them back!! I wanted to come out of here looking waif-like and gaunt! NOT RIPPED LIKE FLAMING POPEYE!!!!!!!!’

Needless to say, I have never been back.

G x

P.S WELCOME to the rush of new followers, very excited to have you in my clutches!

Myself and Nigel had a candle lit dinner together to celebrate your arrival (it was a rather one sided conversation). IMG_3202

AmsterSHAM

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.

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Lads on tour

The Airport

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’.

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The point of no return

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’

IMG 2767 from Gabrielle Fernie on Vimeo.

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).

Amsterdam- you absolutely destroyed us.

And we’ve already booked to come back next month.

G x

HEN DO (DON’T)

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.

As I say, I’VE MADE MY PEACE WITH IT.

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

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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.

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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.

'ONE MEAT FEAST PLEASE'
‘ONE MEAT FEAST PLEASE’

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