Maria! Maria!

For the last week and a half I have swung calamitously from one hangover to another via extreme excesses of alcohol and absences of sleep. It all began last Wednesday with a trip to London. Half cut before we arrived we quickly checked in, dumped our bags and headed into Soho. A bottle of wine in the first bar, an early meal and another bottle of wine in the next, two killer cocktails each in the next and then beer with Christian before jumping on the tube and going to the Brits.

Sadly (ahem?) we missed U2 because we were late and drunk and really needed a wee. We did however see Duffy - who was very small and very far away despite her quite large head, Girls Aloud - great stage show, shame about the music and Take That - although technically I did not see them because I was refueling on white wine and trying to convince the bar lady that she should take my five pound note even though it was now cleft in twain.
I nearly wet myself when Estelle and The Ting Tings came on together (secretly I am a thirteen year old girl) and the Pet Shop Boys were very exciting and quite brilliant.

After the show finishes we trollopsed down the stairs and straight to the tube. I seem to remember getting off at Piccadilly Circus but I can't be completely sure. I do remember going to one of my favourite bars - The Friendly Society - and was pleased to see that they had been partially re-vamped. Many of the Barbie dolls had been removed as had the fur on the wall of the grotto and the ceiling is now adorned with a large selection of Trolls.

I do not remember what we drunk there but I do remember that when we were asked to leave (the bar was closing - it was nothing personal) we still had a drink each in our hands. This is when Maria came to the rescue. Maria told me that she had owned the bar since it opened - strange because of all the random nights that I have spent in there I had never seen her.

Whilst socialising with the adorable and slightly curious Maria we were introduced to two chaps (I think one of them works there and the other is a DJ but for all I know they were Russian political activists with a penchant for sea horse meat - I was so drunk by this point.) These chaps then led us across Soho on a magical mystery tour and took us to another bar where I think I danced a little bit and I may have had another drink but that escapes me - which is exactly what we did soon afterwards. 

We discreetly did one and headed off toward Trafalgar Square, down the Strand and to a club which Chris had sorted out guest list places at. Heaven - as I'm sure you can guess by the name - is a gay club. Normally. Last Wednesday night however it was more of a black R&B club. So we went to be frisked, wandered through the metal detector doorway to ensure that we had no weapons (I'm gonna stab you man!) and I think Chris discussed the guest list. The rest of my time in there was a bit of a whirl. I vaguely remember pushing my way through a very packed bar area, I actually do remember dancing badly in one of the bars and apparently Chris gave me some money to buy another drink which I found in my pocket the next morning. We didn't stay there long for some reason. We left through the brick lined arches narrowly avoiding a bitch fight which was about to break out between a couple of young ladies and at this point I don't remember much at all - the lions in Trafalgar Square - being cold - a book shop on Charing Cross road? And then it was morning! Ta da!

Chicken face

Everybody has awkward moments in their life. Take me this morning for example, I had to phone up Prowler and have a heated discussion about why my bottle of poppers and erm... magazines hadn't been sent through their mail order system despite my ordering them a couple of weeks ago and chasing it up with an unanswered email. The nice young man at the other end kindly informed me in gentle (camp) tones that my card had been declined, they had emailed me on my other address and if I cared to pay now they would dispatch the porn immediately.

Many incidents from yesteryear stick in my mind, such as the time at primary school when someone pulled my trousers down whilst I was standing on a chair at a high window thus flashing my bare bum to the entire class and the excruciating moment when I called Mr Melican, my second year history teacher, mummy. I am still cringing now...

That little anecdote, however, segues nicely into the queen of embarrassing moments - my mum.

There was the time at the post office when she felt something uncomfortable on her leg and shook it to try to alleviate the problem only to fling a pair of knickers out of her trouser leg and across the floor of the post office. Such tumble dryer mix ups were a source of hilarity in our house - I mean, who can resist laughing at someone with a sock stuck to the back of their cardigan by the awesome power of static electricity. Then there was the time that my parents were at one of my school's parent's evenings and she realised the importance, half way through the evening, of getting dressed with the lights on. She was wearing a lovely pair of kitten heel shoes, identical to each other in every way other than their colour. One was blue and one was green.

My favourite however was the heroic moment that she lurched to the rescue of a baby that was about to topple out of a trolley at Tesco only to realise upon successfully completing the heroic rescue that said baby was made out of plastic.

Maybe it's something about mums - my friend Janine's mum spent a couple of hours shopping around Chester with a substantial piece of chicken firmly stuck to her spectacles after putting them down on the table during lunch.

Buckley has made a few such faux pas in his time too. In a supermarket in Sale he picked up kangaroo steaks, started singing the song from Skippy the kangaroo and turned to me, steaks thrust forward and asked in a sing-song voice "Do you like Skippy?" Trouble was that I was a couple of metres behind him and he had just serenaded a stranger with kangaroo meat. My favourite Chris moment though was the train journey back to Manchester. He trotted off to the loo for - well let's call it a sit down - and dropped the loo paper on the floor. It was at the precise moment, whilst trying to retrieve it, when he was head to the floor bare bum pointed at the door that he discovered, much to his chagrin, that he had failed to lock the door - swoosh it opened. Chris remained in this position until the unwitting spectator had moved on, so as not to be recognised and then had to do the walk of shame back through the carriage to his seat.

My friend Janet... well there's potentially a whole other post about her. The tin of green paint on head, the man with the stutter that she offended and, as I remember, asking the customer at Habitat when her baby was due despite the fact that she had already had it. La la la la la la...

The cross eyed and the toothless

The elderly woman sitting across from me on the 371 was drinking vodka from a soda water bottle. I didn't realise it was me she was addressing because her eyes looked in different directions but once she had my attention it was interupted by a boy falling off his seat and on to the floor whilst his toothless mother cackled with glee.
Back on his seat the alcoholic shared sweets amongst the passengers. The mong just grinned at them all.

The Living Dead

The living dead are three individuals comprising an elderly couple and a giant man in a pink, teenage girl's belt.
The living dead ride the number eleven bus.
The living dead smell.

Usually they travel together but last Thursday only the old man boarded the bus. Mouth open, unshaven, slowly sliding towards the front seats. I was initially concerned that he had eaten the other two (I've seen them since though - thank God)

I learned a long time ago to sit towards the rear of the bus on Thursday and Friday morning and now enjoy watching those people that sit at the front when the living dead arrive. It begins with an index finger under the nose then quickly progresses to the turning of the head and within a minute or two you can see a physical repulsion to their foetid reek. Some people actually move seats.

It's a nasty business indeed...