drinking

SCURVY

~ Drunken Girl ~ 1 Comment

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

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HEN DO (DON’T)

~ Drunken Girl ~ Leave a comment

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

How To Disgrace Oneself

~ Drunken Girl ~ 5 Comments

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