I'd like one of your non creamy shots please (hot) barman

This weekend I: moved house, witnessed a car accident (possible TWOC), saw the hot barman who used to keep Marms and I entertained in our work local, saw a woman we used to work with who had her three year old daughter in tow last seen when said baby was newborn, drank homemade (delicious) mojitos with Marms and the Treasure Hunter, decided to go to Jesters, drank Jesticles (hideous hideous cocktail), Jagermeister with coke and something that tasted like washing up liquid, met a man who had recently had a testicle removed (yes he showed us), met a man who was an absolute dickhead – his opening line was “I can see you are older ladies” and who then went on to compare the beautiful Treasure Hunter to a school cleaner before his slightly more sober friends led him away to stop us verbally mauling him, watched as Marms pretended to be the secretary for the Cornish divison of Fathers for Justice (with great success), watched as the Treasure Hunter pretended to work for Dell putting ‘p’ keys on keyboards (with slightly less success) and forgot my own alibi that I was a fine art graduate from Falmouth who now paints letterboxes using Royal Pillarbox Red paint that you can only get from the Queen and who harbours dreams to go and work in Bourneville where they have purple lamposts. Fell into a taxi, harrassed the driver, ran rampage through the private garden in my new neighbourhood giggling wildly as Treasure ran around like a headless drunk chicken and Marms broke out the commando rolls in her white linen skirt (I’m actually giggling as I type this), woke up my entire block by clumping up the stairs going ‘shhh, new neighbours, have to be quiet’, ate cold pizza, talked about the boys, collapsed into bed. SLEEP.

Woke up feeling horrific, imbibed ibuprofen and bacon butty, watched in glee as Treasure slept solidly on the floor through talking and having a bacon butty right under her nose. Discussed booze blues and the eternal question ‘why do we do it’. Went to old house, packed van very slowly with lots of lovely little breaks to sit down and feel like arse. Went to tip and tried (in vain) to look girlie and helpless so beefy tip men would come to my rescue and unload junk. Ate last meal in Atherley garden, had visit with the parental units, pretended I wasn’t feeling vommy, had a cold shower, left my hair in its full on Worzel Gummidge state, went and moved the Computer Geek to Guildford, came home for yummy spagbol cooked by Bells’ Boyfriend, lay on the floor feeling very sick indeed, went to bed and slept with my head in a bin for fear of messing my new carpet.

Only slight dampener on the shenanigans (and I think you will all agree it definitely falls into this category) was the “older ladies” knobhead who whilst being led away by his polite and not too hammered friends and wibbling on about how we should be grateful for the attention and comedy that he had thrust upon us pointed squarely at me and said “You should be particularly grateful for the attention”. Of course the subtext was “As the woman with the biggest bottom in here by a long chalk you should be grateful that I, an actual boy with actual boy bits am deigning to pay any attention to you, let alone the sort of attention where I am practically sitting in your lap and rubbing your thigh”. I didn’t let it bother me though as he was a) a complete dick and b) so drunk he failed to realise that we were laughing AT him and not WITH him.


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