Over the last 4 years of blogging i’ve increasingly refrained from regaling you of my weekend exploits (in the past i’ve done it here, here, and here – worth looking at for the comedy factor alone) and to be honest the tales of me drunk for the 10th weekend in a row don’t make me come across as well, classy*.

But, in the spirit of saying goodbye to drinking and having laughed at Alice’s and Brandy’s tales of drinking mishaps this morning**, I decided to share my latest (and one of the greatest) embarrassing incidents.

This was the day a dining table made me sick. Yes a dining table.

It all started out innocently enough. Friday night girls night out.

Now, being gregarious girls*** who normally haunt a small house music and after party circuit, between us we’d pretty much worn out the supply of eligible men. For the want of a better word, they were on the hunt for different meat. (I was window shopping only and being oldest, the mum of the group).

So, we’d made an effort, bought frocks, high heals, dressed up, we were hitting the new town, we needed to be elegant, stylish, chic, refined and all that jazz.

We’ll we tried.

After a couple of warm up drinks at home we hit 99 Hanover Street and after a couple of bottles of wine between us, a bright spark amongst decided that we should indulge in that student shot of choice, the Jager Bomb. It’s at this point things get a little hazy.

The next thing I remember clearly is being in a different bar called Bramble being handed their signature cocktail (obviously called the bramble). But as the Jager bomb hit faded, the fog lifted and I began to happily slurp on life giving gin, I realised with absolute horror that my brand new Nokia N96 mobile phone (which I had just got that day) had disappeared.

Hot footing back to 99 Hanover Street it as fast as my new heals could carry me, I was praying no-one would have noticed a 300 quid phone left on a busy bar table and nicked it.

Who was I kidding?

But, someone must have been smiling down on me as some heaven sent person had handed it in at the bar for me. Now, the bar-cutie I had been winding up whist buying the jager bombs earlier (or so he told me, this is officially in a black spot) refused to let me have my phone back until we did a shot of tequila together. I hate tequila. It bounces. But I must have been pissed (despite the fog lifting) as I did it. Fast.

It was at this point that I realised my mistake. I quickly lost the ability to see, walk, talk, and stand. I was a disgrace. The boyfriend had to be called, woken up, dragged out of his bed, and drive across town to come and pick me up. I was so bad I even had to be left in the charge of a very nice bouncer who didn’t laugh too hard at my predicament until the boy came and fished me off the street corner.

As I said, tequila always makes a re-appearance, it was lucky I managed to yell “STOP” in time or I would have never made it home without a car cleaning bill. Of course I had to do it right in front of a poor unsuspecting dog walker who had to watch me classily lean out of the boys flashy coupe and puke in the street.

And then I had to mouth off abusively about him ‘perving’.

On a pukey, messy girl. Of course.

Oh, but It didn’t stop there.

Morning comes and i’ve dragged my sorry ass out of my boyfriend’s bed to get a lift home. Now he shares a modern apartment with his dad and they are still furnishing. That morning their new dining table had been delivered. As I heard my name called by the boyfriend’s dad I shakily walked into to the lounge to compliment it (very fancy) I felt another wave of nausea hit me.

In the middle of the sentence “its lovel…..” I had to smack my hand over my face and make a dash for the toilet, leaving my boyfriends dad looking after me in disgust as the sound of more alcohol hit the porcelain. The boyfriend valiantly carried on talking about the seat cushion colours as nothing had happened.

You would think i’m 16. i’m not. I’m 30.

I proceeded to spent the rest of the day wrapped around the toliet. Classy.

Kxx

*I’m honestly in awe of you out there that minute every day lived, drink drunk, pound lost or man pulled, but even though I am not anonymous, I’m more likely to hold back for fear of, well, i’m not sure, but formal ‘outing’ is one of them.

**at first I though we’d all had a particularly heavy weekend, or it was a full moon until I discovered Ben has been organising a worst hangover competition

***that’s gregarious not sluts

Oh don’t be a Jonze and follow my lead…