Friday night was Tim's 30th birthday and, aside from the incomprehensibly painful hangover the next day, was an absolute riot. Lots of old and new faces got together in The Goldhawk, the local pub back in the day, when we all worked in Hammersmith (right next to a lunatic asylum, fittingly).I got to spend time with lots of lovely people I haven't seen in a while, such as Marcus (who renamed my magazine Open Your Legs and couldn't be persuaded out of it) and Martin (note to Martin: the bloke I was trying to make you listen to on my phone was Richard Walters) and Robert (I'm so sorry I made you sit in the corner and try to work out who I was making Martin listen to on my phone) and Lorna (who at one point forgot herself and shouted out "MY TITS" when I asked where she'd sprayed her perfume). I also got to meet the infamous Inexplicable Device, who was utterly charming and still has the green hotpants.
Apparently there was a dog chasing balloons, but I didn't see it, which begs the question of what on earth I was doing.
But the real trouble began on my way home. At about 12.30 I realised I was in serious danger of missing the last bus home, so I slurred a few goodbyes, staggered back down to the bus station and clambered onto the first moving vehicle I saw. Followed closely by a bunch of chavs. I made it about halfway home before I lost the ability to not laugh at their chav-speak. Sadly they clocked my mirth and started grumbling about it.
At which point I sent the following text to Best Mate:
They have spotted me. They see my glee. They chattin at me. I merry like santa. I off cup now. By cup I mean bus. On hill. Feel ma mad storytellin skillz.
Which tells you all you need to know about my level of sobriety. Worrying about this unusual, out-of-character behaviour (it was, it was, it WAS), Best Mate toddled out to the pavement in her nightie to make sure I hadn't collapsed in a heap somewhere twixt bus and home. And there I was, giggling and stumbling away. Taking pity on me, she escorted me back to her room, where I promptly slumped to the floor and started muttering. Best Mate was over the other side of the room making me toast and tea and could only see the top half of me over the furniture, so has decided to call me The Complaining Torso. It is a fitting moniker.
I would say I need more nights like that, but I'm not sure I'd survive.
8 comments:
Oh, there I was leaving a comment elsewhere and when I came back: Lo, a new post!
You are utterly delightful, and I'm pleased to have have met you.
Alas, the Freakin' Green Elf Shorts have departed now, which is a relief, I can tell you!
And yes: That dog. I missed it too. How did that happen?
Yay hello!! Do you think Tim might have been imagining that dog? I wouldn't put it past him.
It was a pleasure meeting you, too, and I'm very very glad I did so before I started talking complete nonsense!
We really must all do that again...but not until my liver recovers!
I do have a spare liver around here somewhere.
I've no idea who it belonged to though, so you'd better not be too choosy.
As long as it comes with onions, I'm happy.
Oh you poor drunken thing! You left about 15 minutes before the curious incident of the dog at midnight with balloons!
Oh dammit, I'd have enjoyed that! I'd probably have frightened it, though. Or made it try to identify the song I was playing on my phone. Oh dear.
A drunken night out is not a drunken night out (or in) without stair surfing on your boobs and belly, you'd do well to remember that.
I should like to remind you, madam, that you didn't do it, you realised your peril and changed your mind! Just as well, you'd have broken your neck.
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