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

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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.