I forgot to tell you about my pub hell on Friday night. Someone at work was leaving so we had the customary couple of drinks after work. For some reason I always get extremely nervous of such events. I don’t know if this is because two things normally happen on such occasions. One thing I have a tendency to do is to get so twatted that I make an arse of myself and everyone else around me like the time I went to a wedding with work people and the free wine on entry ensured that after swaying around on the dance floor and harassing my boss about her actual age that I was found, half an hour later, with my face in a rose bush in the grounds of a posh hotel hacking my guts up like a bulimic after a 4 hour binge. I was then bundled in a taxi to face my mother who then had the humiliating experience of putting a drunken pukey daughter to bed with a bucket and pint of water. The other thing that usually happens is I decide to confess my undying love for someone I work with, even though really I hate them to death, just so I can try and snog them and embarrass them at work the following day. It always ends up with me being knocked back because of disgusted straight work mates thinking I’m a pervert. Still I get invited out for drinks. I don’t understand. Anyway, I ended up in the Bells which is a pub directly across from my work and for some reason this is a selling point for my work colleagues, despite the fact that I work on Union Street and there are bars on every corner that don’t smell of body odour and vomit. I settled into the torn seats with as much ease as a forced fart and tried to hold off the unavoidable toilet trip for fear of what I may find. Had I not have necked two triple vodkas prior to meeting up then this task may not have been so excruciating. I’m always so unlucky with toilets and of course, this was no exception. There were 3 cubicles and once I managed to locate them, pushing my way through leering men all wanting a piece of my ass (well there is plenty to go round) I was faced with a puking whore who didn’t even have the decency to close the door behind her so all I saw was a blue jean arse the size of two of my own global bum and violent body convulsions which were carried out to the sound track of lumpy retching. Oh and as if that wasn’t bad enough she had white socks on. And so I try to avoid this mass of puke (good coming from Miss Pukey 2002) and take the left cubicle which low and behold has no lock and no bog roll so middle cubicle it was. And what greets me here? A pound of pooh caked down the side of the bog which I know was so immense that it would still be there today. It’s that whole ‘I’m going out for a voddy and a poop’ thing and it drives me insane cos this was no sudden diarrhoea, not with that consistency, no way. And as I sat back down and listened to the old bastards who’d been there for a week singing happy birthday to no one in particular all I could think about was people’s pooping habits and getting home in time to watch Big Brother, the finale which did not disappoint and the lovely Kate Lawler who spoiled us for weeks with drunken and stupid behaviour, won the show. And so I go to stuff my every crevice with peanut butter crisps and wonder why walking is often a problem.
I got new customised Dunlops yesterday. They are quite beautiful, navy with paint splashes. I think I’m in love. Someone said they were ‘just like wellie boots but without the wellie bit’. I don’t get it.
Listening to: n.e.r.d rockstar