Hair of the Goat

I’m going to start off by just explaining the miss-quote in the title. I know that, traditionally, the phrase is “hair of the dog” but for a long time I would always accidently say “hair of the goat” and it’s just stuck now and has become a running joke within my family.

Now, when I initially started writing, it was about one drunken night. Unfortunately though, it occurred to me that I couldn’t recall the events of that night very well and therefore I changed my angle. As a result my opening blog, although somewhat includes aspects of said night, is more of a way to get to know me. Just a small glimpse into my social life. The first of, hopefully, many.

So, I woke up Saturday morning and immediately knew that I probably made a fool of myself the night before. My head was hurting and my stomach was far from happy, as I attempted to turn over in bed without wanting to die. Now facing my room, I saw the mess created on my arrival home the previous night. Bag, coat and shoes spread across the insignificant floor space I have. I had been too lazy/drunk to get changed out of my clothes though.

Then flashes from the night before began. Drinking games. The conga. Me exclaiming “I’m not getting drunk tonight!” Straight vodka. Photos. Piano. Smashed bottles. Lying in my hallway when I got home. And finally, crying because I couldn’t find my phone charger and gratefully being saved by my sister.

Oh God! Why do I always embarrass myself?! I thought. As I cringed at these awful recollections, I got up to get a glass of water, that was gone within seconds. Then I remembered I had to go out that night as well. So throughout the day I tried my best to get rid of my hangover. I napped for a few hours, I took nurofen and ate and ate and ate. By the time half 7 came around and I was about to leave my house I wasn’t feeling too bad. I was determined to have a good night with my close friends and boyfriend. Alcohol was, of course, still on the cards.

I don’t mind busy pubs. It’s much better than an empty one anyway. But when you’re in a place with no remaining seats and everywhere you can possibly stand is already being occupied by people with their eyes peeled for the second an arse leaves a chair, it’s pretty frustrating.

As more people arrived and our group grew, we found a spot where two girls were sitting, one with an empty glass and one almost finished. We stood guard ready to pounce once they had abandoned their chairs. And FINALLY, we got to sit down, after an hour of waiting and only another half an hour before we had to leave to get to the next pub.

The problem with winter is that going to a pub with mainly outside seating means that you freeze your fucking butt off. My feet have suffered the ice cold temperatures many times due to the fact I insist on wearing heels. Being only 5ft and also having a best friend who wouldn’t be seen dead on a night out without her 5 inchers, makes heels mandatory. Luckily, at the beginning of the new year I purchased a beautiful pair of grey, laced boots that keep my toes quite toasty in comparison to the footwear I’ve previously chosen to wear.

So when we arrived we headed straight to the bar to fuel our alcohol blankets and to hopefully ensure we didn’t all leave with frostbite at the end of the night. Then we made our way outside and settled at a lovely, grimey bench that is still stained pink from a night many months before in the summer, where we had fun with some pink tissue paper.

As usual, we talked, laughed, took the piss out of each other, etc, until I found myself in a conversation with my boyfriend, his best friend and his girlfriend about a sex position that, from my understanding, can only result in a broken penis. Something along the lines of the girl on her back, contorted with her legs flung up so her fanny is facing upward and the guy squatting above her and bending his dick down to enter. Because all a girl wants in a sexual experience is a face full of bumhole. The only person who should be intimate with such an area is the individual themselves, and possibly a doctor. For some reason my mind has decided that that story deserves a place in my head, where it can’t be forgotten.

This is a typical topic of conversation for my group of friends. Sex and poo probably being top of the list in terms of what is frequently talked about, so I guess that story was quite a good example. We slag each other off and embarrass each other in the most loving ways and I don’t think I’d want it to be any different.

As the night progressed my friend and I decided it was way too cold and we needed to go inside. This was definitely the best decision we made. Everyone else eventually followed suit and we discovered they were playing all 90’s rock and we began requesting.

We danced in the only way we know how. A mixture of taking the piss out of the way typical “white gals” dance (nothing like ourselves of course, we’re classy white girls), whipping our hair back and forth (which could also be described as light head banging) and when a particularly amazing song comes on we actually dance like normal people. We must’ve burnt a lot of calories that night. From the pictures we all look pretty hot, in both senses of the word. My favourite picture from that night, however, consists of my boyfriend practically molesting me on the dance floor and I look more than happy about it.

People began trailing off and left was one friend, my boyfriend and myself. We decided to leave shortly after everyone else and on the way to the cab office I insisted on stopping to get the obligatory chicken kebab and chips. Omnomnom! Tastes like heaven, looks like shit; it’s a good job they’re only eaten when drunk.

And that was my night. Well not entirely, but I won’t go into detail about what happened when I went back to my boyfriends and what not. I don’t think that’d be a particularly appropriate topic of conversation and I doubt he’d be greatly overjoyed about me revealing our sex life on the internet (unlike my best friend and her boyfriend who openly write a sex blog together), but then again, he might not give a shit.

In one weekend I experienced the two ends of the spectrum. Friday night: completely battered and a total embarrassment. Saturday night: drunk, happy and good memories with my friends. Although the better night out cost me 40 quid and the shit night cost me about 5, it was definitely worth it.