More than anything in the world I hate the hangover munchies. I hate them more than hangovers themselves and even more than real mayonaise which is so full of fat it tastes like, well pretty much just fat. I always excuse the need to eat a whole stuffed crust pizza with extra cheese, 2 boxes of pringles, 4 tuna cheese melts and any freezer goods that take less than 2 minuts to cook, when I'm hungover but the guilt the following day is excruciating. It's worth it at the time, when I salivate my way through the supermarket opening packets off the shelves and swigging out of the diluting juice but the day after I look and feel like the size of my house and the neighbours houses, on both sides. It's quite possible for me to put on at least half a stone when I have the hangover munchies. I mean, it's only 4pm today and already I have made my way through more food than a 'normal' person would in a month and there's still time for more, more and even more. I couldn't even begin to tell you all I have eaten so far but I will say that cold macaroni pies with lashings of sauce (tomato and mayo) and extra pepper are divine. The cause of my hangover is of course too much vodka. But, as opposed to consuming only 4 drinks and feeling like a crusty turd, this time I have a real real hangover due to drinking a creditable amount of alcohol, for once. We piled round to the Queen of Fun's house, determined not to burn sofas and not to puke up. We failed on both accounts. The 2 litres of vodka and cider and beer were gone within around two hours, as were 2 of our buds who sunk into the sofa after too many dodgy pipes and tightly rolled joints. The general opinion of all guests were that everyone was fucked. While Tiffany had us running around the table and while the vodka did some to cure our depleted energies, it wasn't really enough to ensure that we were up dancing all night when we went clubbing. IN fact, resident nasty dancer Miss Fee took to the dance floor only 5 times in about 3 hours and on these occasions could do nothing more than swing someone's clutchey and shuffle her feet from side to side while staring intently at the floor and while trying to save The Queen from a random stalker. The hours we stayed out seemed to more than drag on and the conversational skills of the entire group were very limited while eyes were barely focusing. It was still a fun night but we probably should have stayed at the Queen's where at least we had been capable of slight dancing and yelling and burning things and generally having a laugh. And for once I wasn't the only one vomiting. A shiny eyed Beautiful Boy made a shaky appearance out of the bog a good ten minutes before I even thought about puking. I thought I had gotten my puke over and done with, prior to going out but once I left the club and was settled into a sofa with last fag in hand it became clear that I was in for a real treat. I leapt to the toilet faster than I run to the fridge and was there, face stuffed in bowl for a good half hour before I was dragged out and put to bed. I'm always sick. I'm in control of my puking habits but this was different. There was no controlling this severe retching which made me believe I had lost my eyeballs. I must add how pretty I looked with my white soiled shirt on, blue spew dripping down my chin, lumps of pizza in hair and smelling like cabbage. Now I know why I am loved so.
Oh and for the first time in my life my outfit was so co-ordinated that I almost had to change cos it scared my so bad. I had on a white fitted shirt, dirty denim jeans with the cutest flare, a sparkley pink belt (studded) with matching, yes matching bracelet and a pink sparkley corded tie. Oh and there was matching ribbon and hair bobbles. Fuck it's too much.
Next week we are having a party for Beautiful Boy who has a momentous birthday next sunday. There will be helium, there will be twister and there most certainly will be blown up pictures of a certain someone in a catsuit.
One final addition: Luscious L had on a kravat. There's nothing else to say about that.