But bloody good fun.*
I’m 35 and have never been much of a night owl. I’m a creature of comfort and like yoga pants, a good movie, and a glass of wine. My spiritual home isn’t a sticky floored nightclub knocking back shots and shouting to be heard and I have the rhythm of an arthritic donkey wearing roller skates so dancing isn’t my forte either.
Sometimes though, it can be bloody good fun to just tie on one and get absolutely bollocksed and boy did I do that at the tail end of last week.
I blame the winning team at a golf day I attended on Thursday who shall forever be known as the four horsemen of the apocalypse because it sure felt like my world was ending the morning after. We rendezvoused at their hotel and squeezed in a glass of wine waiting for them all to stop fannying with their hair before having one more for the road and heading off to a local cocktail bar.
According to the head horseman “a Jagerbomb turns a mediocre night into a great one” and boy did we put that to the test although with hindsight I disagree entirely and you are entitled to slap it out of my hand if you ever see me holding one again.
I think we danced. I know at some stage someone dashed a drink all over my white Converse which when I noticed it on Sunday morning almost made me puke because I thought it was blood.
I remember a group of random women in the street telling me I was just like someone off the telly and of course it was Miranda Hart *rolls eyes* and then somehow we all got split up, I was turned away from going into a grimy club because I had no ID, I managed to lose my Fitbit off my wrist, and pulled a total random before snogging like a teenager on a park bench.
Next thing we were in the lobby bar at his hotel making kissy faces at each other, chatting absolute shit, and snogging like teenagers. Honestly, someone should have thrown a bucket of water over us. I found my way into a taxi and it was only when the car turned into my driveway that I realised… THE SUN WAS UP.
Half past five. HALF. PAST. FIVE. Which means I had spent *does quick finger maths* FOUR HOURS of my life snogging in a hotel lobby.
I fell into bed for a blissful dreamless sleep. Until I was rudely awoken just two short hours later to drop kick myself through the shower, put on some slap and a posh dress and get on the train for Henley.
Hair of the dog that bit me along with several shovels worth of makeup was the only way I was going to get through it and god bless my friends for lying and telling me how fresh I was looking. I’ll admit to not seeing much rowing – in fact I saw about a minute of one race but spent a lot of time people watching posh boys in blazers braying their way up and down the riverbanks.
Early afternoon I started to fade. There was quite a lot of nursing my mojito whilst nodding thoughtfully at what was going on around me but somewhere deep inside me was enough juju to rally and carry on. We wandered into Henley and onto the terrace of a lovely pub for some post match beverages where we encountered a group of banter banter blazer wankers probably called Tarquin and Jonty. An interaction with one of them ended with me aghast and clutching my metaphorical pearls whilst uttering,
“For goodness sake, we’re in HENLEY” at his offensive language. After more Jagerbombs (why Lord, why?!) we hopped in a cab and ended up in a Hip Hop Funk Soul Grime (now I’m just using random words, right?) club in Reading. Me, the whitest woman in the world, dressed like she was off to Buck House and yet dancing to Skepta and Stormzy. Innit blud.
More wine, more wine, accidentally splitting my friend’s lip by smacking him in the mouth, the usual. And then it was time for bed, said Zebedee.
Never, ever again.
*Until two mornings later when you crawl bruised and battered into your bed and spend the next two days sleeping and wondering why your thighs hurt so much whilst swearing you’re never drinking again.