The hills are alive with the sound of music. Or maybe it’s the sound of my arse after the 18 too many windeze I consumed over the weekend. After Saturday’s night of losing wallets and dancing like a fanny I went to see Miss Minogue in Glasgow. I think I had around 3 hours sleep so this coupled with the hangover meant I was rough as hell and looking like a mummified corpse only less pretty and smellin’ far worse. I went with Queen of Fun and the Beautiful Boy. He was not only hungover but was the walking wounded, he did slip a disc you know so there was only one way we were going to make it through the train journey, the afternoon and the concert – Vodka. Having only one glass I settled for drinking it straight because I’m tough like that and thought the results would have been interesting. Anyway, I really did not relish the skitters that were surely to follow with THAT amount of fresh orange juice. We were joined on our journey to see mini minogue by KylieKat who marvelled us with his fanatical Kylie ways by showing off his Kylie balloons, lollipops, home made tees and pretty much everything else that would fit in his over night sack and poster case and every available pocket. He almost had as much luggage as the Queen who for one night of Kylie pleasure had packed the biggest hairdryer in the world, 5 outfits, a chocolate cake and various sized pants into some case that was bigger than the space cleared in the train after orange juice farts. She was Hell on Wheels as she struggled to keep control of the thing as she tore down the street trying to escape the stench of farts that seemed to be following BB and myself around all weekend. Why is it everywhere I go with BB, be that in the pub or in the bowling alley or in the museum of dead people, the conversation always turns to jobbies and follow throughs and letting bad boys go? It doesn’t really say much about us at all does it? After the stupidity of our regular conversations we decided to try and maintain an adult (that’s adult as in sensible not as in pornographic) conversation for at least 15 minutes. The stop watches were on but not only did we fail to make it past a minute but we couldn’t even think of any ‘adult’ topics to discuss. I thought about trying to lunge into a spiel about the effects of smoking on the environment but realised I couldn’t think of any and nor did I care. After admitting defeat and accepting we are twats it was back to the shit. Oh and then the train stops at like Stirling for a good 20 minutes because apparently the train ‘is a failure’. Personally I think it was because the driver had a good dose of diaorhea and needed to stop off for a sneaky turd for fear of skidding his bifs with a follow through. Fuck, here I go again. Finally we arrive in Glasgow, kinda on the way to getting wasted and head to the shop for more beer and mini babybels and pot noodles. We get our party clobber on, me in my frilly shoulder padded puffy buttoned jacket which stopped around the belly button and my rara skirt looking well swanky and the other two always outdoing me with their sense of style. We drank more at the concert, signed up for Kylie credit cards so we could get free flashing wands and tried to spot any heterosexuals in the crowd. I think we got 2. As I have more than a tendency to bore all with my ramblings I will not give you a blow by blow account of the concert, partly cause I have forgotten but I will tell you it was one of my best so far (nothing beats my Britney) and that the lil minx looked far too pleasing in her police woman uniform and then skimpy basque. The other highlight was the free ‘kylie’ water of which you were allowed only one but we backed up the car and stocked up the boot before driving off into the sunset, or to bed at least. BB went dancing with Disco Dave and The Clubb while I retired to my bed. We had stuffed the 3 of us in one room (illegally apparently) and I so did not want the sleeping position next to BB for fear he may leave a tan line on my leg what with all that damn orange juice he’d downed. I awoke feeling kinda refreshed but not really ready to shop. I just wanted to smoke and buy pants, both of which I carried out and both of which disappointed. And then it was train time, a time I know The Queen looked forward to like a case of dysentery and more beer had to be purchased to make the journey pass with event. This time around there was no BB throwing his gay self at the window trying to wave at the passers by and shocking everyone in the entire train with his cuteness (yes he’s 25, almost) and neither was BB emphasising that poof status by glittering his shoes but there was rotten toilets that were worthy of a ‘gagfest’ award. I don’t have a public bog issue but I do have train toilet issue as with any toilet that involves a self shutting door. One time I was in the middle of Soho on a hot summer night taking a piss in some such portable loo when suddenly the door swings open and here’s me in all my glory, kecks round my ankles with about 76 people pointing and laughing at my predicament as the door took a further 5 minutes to swing itself shut. Mortified is the only fitting word. But anyway, after the beer there was no way I was holding any piss in and slunk off, shoulder barging anything and everything in my drunkenness. How hard is it to ‘hover’ when a train is in motion? Jesus let’s say ‘very’. I managed to piss on the seat, the floor and even worse on my over worn jeans as my ass swayed violently from side to side. The toilet was positioned in such a way that had the door have flown open my ass in the air would have been on full display but as I tried to force the 4 pints of beer out with great speed I just kept spraying everywhere til it was clear I would spend the rest of the journey rotting in the toilet to keep my pissy smell to my self. I wouldn’t have cared so much had I not have had a date last night. What an impression, Fee turns up to meet said date with soggy ankles and stained shoes and stinkin’ of lager piss. Nice.
Lesson of the weekend: Need to drink less.