A Night Forgotten

I’m standing on the edge of a black hole, staring into the abyss. How did I get here? I know that I travelled through the shadows; I have the wounds to prove it; cuts and bruises carved into my skin. However, my recollection of what occurred during my journey has been lost along the way. My mind has been wiped and now a curious emptiness lay before my eyes, an emptiness called Saturday Night.

On the night in question I was very excited. The last time I had been out was on my birthday and the weeks in between had proven to be difficult. With each weekend that came and went my lust for the bitter taste of vodka on my lips grew ever stronger. The need to don a pair of heels and take to the streets, scantily clad, forever building. And so, when the day finally came in which I could fulfil my desires, I was brewing with anticipation. An evening fuelled by alcohol and dancing with my besties was definitely something I had missed. With a new pair of shoes to wear I was all set for a big night. I grabbed my purse, make up, money and swagger and left my house feeling on top of the world.

The first hurdle presented itself at the entrance of the pub I have been spending my weekends at for the past 2 years. Now at the ripe old age of 20, when handing over my ID the prospect of it being questioned rarely enters my mind. However, the bouncer who stood before me, my ID resting in his fingers, was eyeing me suspiciously and then asked me for some other form of identification that had my name on it. Of course I was able to do so and he moved aside and let me enter. This event was discussed with distaste upon greeting each person that arrived. I know I look young, but that really wounded my confidence.

After that slight mishap, we soon had our drinks in hand and it felt like I’d never been away. I was back in my comfort zone. Coincidently, we were not the only ones who had decided to leave our abode’s to dance the night away, as we were bumping into familiar faces from the moment we arrived. The drinks flowed, the conversation ran and soon everyone’s thoughts were swaying towards removing ourselves from the pub and onto the club. But not before a quick Chlamydia test had been done.

This wasn’t the first time I had been greeted by two people armed with official looking forms, surrounded by white pots. It could be said that taking a Chlamydia test when you’re 11 months into a happy, committed, relationship is a bit foolish, but at that moment in time it felt that our night would not be complete until we had completed this task, and a task it would be. Peeing in a pot often proves a challenge when one is sober, so I’m sure I needn’t say that it is 100 times harder when drunk; I was certainly hastier than usual in washing my hands after I’d finished.

Finally, we were on our way, but not before we were faced with another obstacle to surpass. Upon exiting the establishment we were greeted by a gentleman who after a bit of light conversation proceeded to tell us: “There’s always one guy who gets all the girls.” It seemed that this man was suggesting that he is one of these guys. We looked at him, dreadlocks, scruffy clothes, dirty shoes, possibly a slight smell circulating around him, and decided this was laughable. We mocked him a little and in the end he walked off and we were free to continue on our journey.

It is at this point that I must turn to the 186 pictures taken that night in order to aid me with the rest of my tale. Although having poured over them many times already to laugh and cringe at the events that were captured, I now must look at them as a storyboard and translate into words the outlandish things that appeared to have taken place.

Naturally, we first made our way to the toilet and then headed straight to the bar. After having purchased our first drinks, I headed towards the seating area with one of my friends and proceeded to spill my drink all over the table. After this, we again found ourselves at the bar, where we bumped into a few familiar faces, purchased our alcohol and then made our way to the dance floor, the main attraction for the evening.

Amidst busting some moves, I brought out the camera once more and began to take some action shots. Just as I was about to snap another picture of one of my friends, a gentleman resembling an anime character tapped me on the shoulder and asked if I’d like him to take a picture of all of us. Oh what a lovely man! I gratefully handed over my camera, joined the rest of the group. We all struck a pose and waited for the flash. Only after he had handed my camera back for me to inspect his photography skills, did I realise two of his friends had high jacked what would’ve been a wonderful picture of me and my friends. Whenever I look back at this picture now, I’ll smile to myself, as I look down at our group, remembering a night of fun...and those two strange ugly men in the background.

As the night progressed we moved from the main room into the cheese room. If we thought we’d been enjoying ourselves so far, we were about to get hit with the party stick and really make the nights Facebook album one worth looking at, depending on your opinion on overexposure that is.

All our inhibitions had been flung out the window and we were ready to get down to business. We were in our element with the music ranging from the Spice Girls and Michael Jackson eventually moving on to Arctic Monkeys and The Fratellis. We all seemed to forget that our skirts had difficulty covering our assets during the simple task of walking, let alone dancing like nobody was watching. The resulting images should probably come with a Parental Guidance label.

The heels were off! We’d comfortably settled in a wide space in the corner, surrounded by tables and cushioned seats that we would soon find were not just useful for holding our drinks and perching our bums on, but also for dancing on. This piece of information became essential in the mystery of the 5 inch gash across my back and the fist size bruise on my inner thigh. It was a shock when I awoke the next day, believing I had just been out clubbing with my friends, to look like I had agreed to an unprecedented surgical procedure. After countless speculations I decided to brush it off and now firmly believe that the resulting damage to my body accumulates to an incredible night.

We dominated said area and danced for hours; no one would have dared try to invade our space, mainly for fear of acquiring injuries similar to my own. We did the Macarena like pros and indulged in some gymnastics as well. I have a fleeting image of standing in front of the mirror in the abandoned toilets, wiping sweat off my face, overlooked by a strange lady who was always standing in the exact same place whenever I entered and exited the room. The calories we must have burnt that night exceed any I could hope to burn during a planned workout.

I think it’s safe to say that my return to alcohol fuelled nightlife has been a successful and unforgettable one. Hopefully this will be the platform for many more summer evenings spent polluting my body and partaking in embarrassing and unflattering moments.

Turning Twenteen

Sitting in the back of a cab, sandwiched between two of my best friends, blasting (as loud as my phone would allow) songs we could only sing the first verse to, a bandage wrapped round my food, plasters on my face, shoeless and wearing a dress that wasn’t mine. Is that the way a 20 year old should behave?

All day at work I’d been glancing at the clock; the hours dragging by as the anticipation bubbled around inside me. Luckily, as home time approached, I was alone in the office and my cheeky eagerness boiled over and I decided to leave early. On the way home I bumped into my friend on the bus, who abruptly told me “Don’t look in this bag!” You see, my teenager years were running short; I was to turn 20 the following day. With one day left to enjoy the right to be reckless, I decided there was no better way to spend it than with my friends, pumping our body with alcohol and dancing like no one’s watching.

The night began with a long cab journey into Watford where my birthday celebrations were to be held. Throughout the journey the conversation was mainly held by me and a girl I used to go to school with, about the days we spent in classrooms, not doing any work. Whenever I go out with said individual we always end up reminiscing about the good old days, often including embarrassing and hilarious moments from primary drunken escapades, as well as the characters from “the best years of our lives”. Whilst we pissed ourselves about girls looking like mammals and general girly gossip, we were gradually getting closer to our destination, where the alcohol awaited us.

Once there, my mission began; walking in 6 and a half inch heels. Admittedly, it was easier than I thought it would be, but I still had to take it slow and clung on to my boyfriend for the duration of our journey down the high street. After eventually making it to the pub and in once piece, we settled ourselves in a nice corner and the conversations continued as others arrived.

One specific moment I remember amidst the flow of drinks is my friend turning to me and telling me that she feels it’s ok to say less than kind things about others when she’s with me, because I’m probably thinking exactly the same things. I have no shame in confessing I tend to speak before I think when it comes to judgements and I accepted my blunt honesty a long time ago. My mouth can run away with me at the best of sober times, without a glance at the angel sitting on my shoulder, urging me to be a bit more subtle, sympathetic, and compassionate. So when I’m 3 double vodkas down, the devil perched on the other side dominates the reigns of my initiative and any morals are drop-kicked out of sight.

Soon Vodka Revs began to call us and we abided to her wishes and made our way next door to indulge in some more alcoholic treats. Two of my friends and I each decided to have two shots of flavoured vodka. Even after all these years of knowing that I detest straight vodka, I still buckled under the pressure Vodka Revs thrust upon me and stepped up to the bar to fulfil her bidding. I tried to convince myself, as I stood in front of the varying colours of alcohol that were placed before me, that this wasn’t going to be as bad as I remembered, for these shots were diluted with fresh fruit flavours. Of course looks can be deceiving and after forcing each shot down, I had to request a glass of water, confirming that I am still a complete pussy when it comes to shots.

As it was getting later and a few members of the group were soon going to have to depart, we decided to move on swiftly to Area, our final destination and the location I would wave farewell to my teenage years and embark upon my 20’s.

After purchasing our drinks, the countdown began to midnight. I was quite drunk and more excited than I would have usually been. “5, 4, 3, 2, 1!” “Woo!” “Happy birthday!” “Here, blow out this candle that’s sitting on the table!” “Yayyy!” I stared down, trying to focus on the blurry candle before my eyes, and blew. Next thing I knew, I was covered in candle wax. The table burst into raucous laughter and as I giggled my way to the bathroom, trying to peal the wax from my face, I was unaware to the disaster that I was about to see reflected back at me in the bathroom mirror.

I ran into the toilet and cleaned up my wax covered skin with ease. However, as I leaned away from the mirror, horror struck as I saw the white stains covering the front of my black dress. In all honesty, I think I stayed relatively calm throughout the whole ordeal. After futilely trying to clean my dress, it was considered a lost cause. Luckily, I had a plan. One of my friends was leaving soon and she just so happened to be wearing a dress I had drooled over previously that night. Despite being something I wouldn’t usually wear, I boldly asked her if we could possibly swap dresses. She graciously accepted and became the saviour of the night. Exciting the bathroom, I held my head high and navigated my way back to our table. I definitely needed another drink.

Unfortunately, the time had come for our group to be severed and half of the attendees were heading home. Once they had departed, those of us left took to the dance floor. I’m surprised I managed to dance whilst balancing on my fashionable stilts, but as I’ve determined, heels are a lot easier to wear when your system is flooded with alcohol. However, I did manage to kick over my own drink, placed carefully to the side of the dance floor, hidden from any unwanted hands; I didn’t predict that I’d forget it was there myself.

The night was drawing to a close, but the fun was to not to end just yet. Gathering ourselves together, we left the club. With my mind on the kebab I was about to purchase, which I had been waiting for for weeks now, my brain neglected my feet and I catapulted myself out onto the pavement. For the thousandth time in our relationship, my boyfriend found himself dragging my limbs from the ground, as I absentmindedly laughed to myself; being drunk is the best pain killer you can get.

Whilst obtaining my meaty goodness, surrounded by potatoey delights, swimming in mayonnaise and covered in my only five a day, lettuce, little did I know my friends were on a top secret mission, to acquire an essential piece of equipment that would complete our evening: a first aid box. There was, surprisingly, method to their madness, for earlier in the evening I had complained that my heels were rubbing my feet and I needed a plaster. Obviously, by this point in time my body was numb to any pain, demonstrated by my epic fall mere minutes beforehand. So although their actions had cause, they were wholly unnecessary.

As any group of drunken individuals would do, we opened the box and proceeded to unpack its contents. Plasters, bandages, plastic gloves, were stuck and wrapped to our bodies in varying places. However, we all had a blue plaster stuck on our cheek, to confirm our alliance to the First Aid Gang. I cannot fathom what the cab driver must have been thinking as he pulled up and saw all four of us looking as if we’d just walked out of a hospital run by 5 year olds. I will never forget what that cab driver said in response to my apologies for playing music and singing loudly whilst we climbed out of his vehicle outside my house. Gesturing to my boyfriend he announced, “Don’t apologise, it’s him I feel sorry for!” With that final laugh of the evening, I made my way inside with my boyfriend and closed the door on an unforgettable 20^th birthday.

Travelodge Adventures

Two weeks after the event and I’m struggling to remember the finer details of the night. “I need to write my blog!” I told my boyfriend in exasperation, to which he replied “Oh yeah, you still haven’t written about the night we stayed in the hotel.” “It’s hard when I’ve left it for so long though...and I don’t really know what to write because all we did was have lots of sex.” His so very unhelpful response was “That’ll do, just write that.” Luckily for you, I decided to not be so crude and put far more effort into this post than simply informing you that I had so much sex that night that afterwards my vagina decided to go on vacation. Enjoy.

It was a lovely day. I’d spent the night with my boyfriend and the day dragging him around the shops and enjoying the glorious sunny weather. I then travelled home and packed my stuff for our night in a hotel. Admittedly it was the hotel in our local town, but I couldn’t wait to spend some quality time, completely alone, with the one I love. I’m sure you can guess exactly what a young couple did upon arrival to a hotel, by themselves, free to do anything they set their minds to without any unwanted attention; we jumped on the bed and started squealing in excitement at how bouncy it was. Why, what did you think I was going to say?

Within minutes we’d made ourselves at home. I know I’m messy, my bedroom at home is a mere pit, with my floor housing the majority of my belongings due to my sheer laziness in regards to putting things back where they belong. However, I didn’t think it was possible for two people to create such a mess within such a short period of time and we truly out did ourselves throughout the rest of our stay, managing to practically flood the bathroom the next day. For now I needed to concentrate on getting ready. We were going out for our friends’ birthday and I have to say it was lovely not having to worry about getting a bus anywhere, as all we had to do was walk round the corner.

As I put on my make up, my boyfriend lounged on the bed, Britain’s Got Talent on the TV, practically wetting himself with glee whilst watching the happiest fat woman I’ve ever seen, play the piano. It was the perfect evening; I don’t think we’ve both ever been in such a good mood.

I was wearing a new pair of bright orange heels, which I’ve now deemed my favourite pair of shoes. Although they are the most comfortable pair I own, as when walking in any platform, I was glad to have my boyfriend holding my hand, helping me keep my balance as we descended down the high street.

We met with our friends and made our way to the first pub of the night. For some reason this pub was excruciatingly hot and I think I spent a majority of the time merely complaining about the heat, even having to step outside for a while to cool down. As we drank, we all contemplated where we would head next. This issue often arises. You see, the town I live in has only two establishments that stay open until the early hours and the chasm between the type of people that go to each place and the music that is played is wide to say the least. In the end, we decided to be sensible and go to the pub where we could sit outside, rather than work up a fever in a club.

We trotted off down the road, as happy as a group of drunk young adults can be. The last time we had ventured to the pub at hand was a couple of weeks before and it had been completely empty. However, this evening it seemed everyone had left their homes to enjoy the weather. To add to this relief, they were playing music we could dance to!

Before we took to the dance floor, we spent some time sitting outside, talking, with growing fear for the boy passed out on our table, who had been there since we had arrived at before 11pm. This poor guy became rather infamous that night. As time passed by, he didn’t move. I was beginning to wonder if he was so drunk that he might have forgotten to breathe. Fortunately, my qualms were demolished when he proceeded to projectile vomit all over the floor. For a moment, everyone seemed in a state of shock, before we all realised that this wasn’t going to be a single bout of nausea. As he was dragged out of the pub (his legs at this point now with the mental age of a 1 year old) he continued to expel his insides down himself and into other’s beverages, until they managed to park his paralytic body outside, where he could continue his alcohol induced sickness in private, not before I’d run after them, camera in hand, to document his shame though.

Once that episode had ended, we all continued on as if nothing had happened, apart from when we had to edge around the pool of vomit that had been left behind. The alcohol continued to floor and soon we were on the dance floor. One of my friends and I have always danced as normally as we could when in this particular pub, until now. If you’re a follower of my blog then you may have read in previous posts that we have a habit of indulging ourselves in “piss take” dancing and tonight was the night that this side of us would be unleashed to a new community. However, there is always hope that no one noticed.

At one point, whilst sitting outside to cool down, my friend and I were approached by a couple of gay guys who began to gush over our heels. Well, who wouldn’t? With me in bright orange and her in bright red, anyone who didn’t notice our glorious footwear simply must have been blind. This wasn’t the only time my heels were admired either; I bumped into a girl in the toilet who, although reprimanding me for wearing suede shoes in one of the dirtiest pubs in the land, didn’t refrain from also admitting how amazing they are.

As the group began to thin, the urge to head back to, what felt like, our secluded abode grew stronger and we soon said farewell to those who were left and began our short journey back to the hotel. As we exited the pub, we passed the guy still sitting outside, now thoroughly drenched in his own body fluid. He was accompanied by a friend, who had been continuously ringing the same cab number and continuously been turned down. We gave them a new cab number and went on our way. I have never envied anyone less.

After we’d stumbled our way down the high street, intervened by my boyfriend having to drag me past the kebab shop as I gazed inside like a homeless child staring into a sweet shop, stocking up (for some unknown reason) on coke cans, we finally made it back. 3 or so hours later, we unknowingly fell asleep.

It occurred to us both the next day that staying in a hotel is not the same as being completely alone. I feel slightly sorry (and embarrassed) for the people who were staying next door to us; we definitely treated that room like it was home. The intimate details of our evening I will leave for you to conjure up, for I wouldn’t want to undermine how amazing it was and how much that night meant to me.

It's an Alcoholics World

All over Facebook there are groups on the subject of being drunk. “The awkward moment when vodka robs your dignity”, “Waking up in the morning hungover and hoping you still have friends” and “It wasn't my fault, the vodka made me do it” are just a few of the thousands of groups dedicated in the most common pastime for adolescents and young adults.

Lists and quizzes detailing and revealing what kind of drunk you are circulate the internet. The “Crying Drunk”, the “Horny Drunk”, the “I Love Everyone Drunk”. Throughout my years of drinking, the recurring tendencies I exhibit have become apparent and I’ve decided that I have an element of all of them, and I’m pretty sure a combination of a crying and horny drunk is only a formula for disaster.

So below, are the five traits I frequently demonstrate when under the influence of alcohol.

I am rich

At the beginning of the night I always decide on the amount of money I want to spend. That is how much money I retrieve from the cash machine before I embark on a voyage of ultimate inebriation. I tell myself continuously that I mustn’t spend anymore than that; that £30 is more than enough to get me drunk. My purse will gradually become lighter and lighter and I seem to become unaware that spending money equates to running out of money at some point during the night. Therefore, logically, I reach a point in the night, when my funds have been used and despite the fact I am barely holding myself up as I stand at the bar, I need another drink. At this point, one of two things occurs. 1. I frantically look for a friend who will accompany me to a cash point. 2. If I have been so foolish to bring it with me, the damage is inflicted upon my debit card. The latter being the more devastating, as my recklessness will only be discovered upon checking my bank balance the next day.

Honesty is the best policy

We all have secrets. We all have something that we swear we will never tell a living soul, whether it is out of embarrassment or because the information is not ours to tell. Some people are good at keeping secrets. The people who aren’t good at keeping secrets? Drunk people. And who just happens to be the drunk person in question? Why, that would be me. Now I’m not a complete bitch and spread around the things that I have sworn not to reveal, but “You know that first night we had sex? I thought that was a one night stand” is clearly an appropriate thing to say to said male, when he’s now been your boyfriend for 10 months. During the process of getting ready for a night out, I’ll sit in the bath and list the things I shouldn’t let escape my mouth; the next day I cross off the ones that did and pray that next time, the list does not decrease any further. Alcohol should have come with the warning: “May induce side effects also common when using truth serum.”

Crying in public is ok

One of the stereotypes in the world of drunks is the formally mentioned “Crying Drunk”, more commonly found in girls. Unfortunately, this is another heading that I fall under. A night can be amazing. Friends, laughter, dancing, the whole shebang! Then the ultimate sin is committed and, yet again, too much alcohol is consumed. All dignity and pride is diluted by destructive poison and any insecurity, jealously or anger felt in the past month comes flooding out in a sea of tears and indecipherable ramblings. You could be fortunate. You could be so drunk that every word that finds its way past your lips makes so little sense that what you’re trying to say cannot be understood by anyone. Or you could be faced with a lot of questions upon awakening the next day.

Everyone is my friend

One of the most common attributes a drunk holds is the illusion that everyone finds them as interesting as they find themselves. However, this is, unfortunately, very far from the truth. I often find myself cringing at the memory of talking aimlessly at someone I vaguely know, who I managed to ambush with my slurred conversation.

Luckily, there are three kinds of people you meet when you’re out, those who are less intoxicated than you, those who are equally intoxicated as you and those who are (somehow) more intoxicated than you. The former being the most excruciating encounters you’ll ever experience. Whilst in the heat of inebriation, that person is interested and listening to what you have to say. In reality, they are politely nodding along, barely responding, whilst in their minds conjuring up any excuse for them to escape the grasps of your vivacious word vomit.

On the other hand, we have the latter categories. Now, these are the people you want to converse with! They’re excited, attentive, reactive and generally way more fun to converse with. Whether it’s that bloke at the bar, who actually turned out not to be a complete creep, or the girls in the toilet who are trying to reapply their makeup without getting eyeliner on their foreheads, the chance of you gaining another Facebook friend is inevitable.

Everywhere is a comfortable place to sleep

When the night is drawing to an end, everyone’s funds are running low and you’ve settled in a comfortable area, tiredness takes hold and the urge to sleep is irresistible. That chair looks really comfortable to lie on; that bench looks really comfortable to rest my head on; that person looks really comfortable to lean on. This is, without a doubt, what I have become known for. No matter where, when, or how inappropriate it may be, there comes a point in the night where everyone sighs as I plonk my head down on the nearest surface to catch a few z’s. It’s all well and good until the time comes that everyone wants to leave or the establishment is closing. Then the struggle to awaken the beast ensues. Once this is achieved, I’ll then fall asleep during the journey home, whether it’s on a bus, train or in a cab. My philosophy when drunk seems to be along the lines of “When it comes to sleep, the world is my mattress”. I’d certainly make an excellent tramp.

Rainy Rock Night

I discovered something incredible yesterday. The day after the night before always entails a few hours of Facebook, in which I trawl through my news feed looking for the statuses and comments of those who created the formula to the previous evening of fun. It was during this process that one of my friends commented on my wall telling me I’d slapped him. My shock was not due to my physical act of aggression, for slapping is a known pastime of mine, but because my list of forgotten moments just grew even longer. I replied telling him I had no recollection of said event occurring, and this is when he revealed to me a truly enlightening fact. Alcohol gets you drunk.

This is my confession; the tale I am about to tell is a collection of memories that do not belong to me. They are an accumulation of the stories told to me by others and by the timeline of photographs I viewed on Facebook.

Challenge accepted.

The night commenced with a drink at mine with my best friend, while we chatted away about boys and bitches. We finished getting ready and made our way into town.

May Rock Night was going to be an interesting one. Mere weeks before the event, there had been a wide spread scandal about the pub at which the event is held. After an unprovoked fight broke out, the alleged victims created a Facebook group publicising the intricate details of the affair, which I’m sure was a completely unbiased version of what happened. These individuals proposed that people boycott the pub. A lot of controversy arose as, despite the questionable reputation of this establishment, they have a lot of loyal customers and within the area they are based they are one of kind. I do not condone violence, but as I have never had any untoward experiences with any of the staff or bouncers before, and in fact have been treated quite courteously when in the heat of my drunken escapades, this wasn’t going to deter me from attending. I think I, and anyone else who visited the pub that night, can safely say that they failed in their “boycott”.

We met our friends in what I would describe as an old man pub, one that I rarely go to. For the moment, the weather was treating us kindly and it had yet to rain, so we sat outside and enjoyed the warmth of the evening, chatting away whilst we were all coherent enough to divulge in interesting conversation.

At the appropriate time we began our journey up the high street. For once, I was wearing exceptionally comfortable shoes. They had arrived only that morning, a beautiful pair of black, suede, wedges, my first pair of this kind of shoe. I have deemed them the easiest heels I’ve ever walked in. No doubt I still stumbled a few times in them, more likely due to my intoxication than being 5 inches unnaturally taller than I should be.

What better time than then for it to start raining. Luckily for me, I have a caring boyfriend, who let me borrow his hoody in order to protect my hair against the vicious drops of pollution falling from the sky. I’m sure I looked positively dashing in the long grey material that hid my shorts entirely from view.

After finally arriving and running to the toilet, I joined the others at the bar and got my drink. We then made our way outside and set up camp by the snooker table, where we spent the first half of our night. This is when the camera was brought out and the flashes began. At this point, I was already feeling the effects of the pitiful amount of alcohol I had consumed. Every picture I attempted to take was a complete failure. Although angered by forgetting to bring my own camera, it was probably for the best. The pictures taken throughout the night, despite capturing how retarded we all are, were hilarious and far more successful than the possible images I would have produced in being the designated photographer.

My first bout of drunken paralysis took place very early on. We’d bumped into familiar faces and my boyfriend and I had spent a considerable amount of time locking lips, when I suddenly came over extremely tired. Instead of the intelligent option of sitting down, I decided that the best place for me to nap would be leaning against my boyfriend. Who can blame me, when he’s so exquisitely comfortable?

Hours after arriving we decided to take our inebriated selves inside. My short snooze had worked in my favour and I was now a lot livelier. We sat ourselves down behind the DJ and this is where we stayed for the remainder of the night. However, after a while I noticed that one of my friends wasn’t with us. As I’ve made clear by now, my blood to alcohol ratio was tipping dangerously in favour of the latter. Therefore, upon discovering the absence of my friend, I overreacted. When under the influence of alcohol I take my unwarranted duty as protector very seriously. The next day I found a text in my sent items that read “Where the fuck are you?” the recipient being the missing individual at hand. I tried my best to convey my concern by adding the usual “xoxo” at the end. Later, she sauntered in from outside without a care in the world. Crisis aborted.

After more drinks, more photos, attempted dancing and acts of violence against my friends, I’d hit my limit. This last memory is one that entirely belongs to me. With my hands clasped around a glass of ice cold water, I watched the reflections of light dance off the glass as I sat glued to my seat by drunken paralysis, while my boyfriend watched over me. The only thought that ran through my head was, “If I move my head, I’m going to be sick.” Luckily, I managed to consume enough water to eliminate the chances of this happening. I needn’t bother saying that the night was over.

We’d been sitting inside for hours; therefore it is understandable that I was completely naive to the torrential rain flooding the streets outside. As I took my first few steps into the night air, I was suddenly being drenched. I was completely surprised and froze to the spot. I threw my hands over my head to try and cover my hair and screamed at my boyfriend “Why aren’t you doing anything?!” My outburst forced him, yet again, to shed himself of his hoody and wrap it around me. We continued round the corner where our cab was waiting to take us home.

I know I had a good night; everyone I’ve spoken to has confirmed this. It’s just a shame I can’t remember any of it. Somehow, I still only managed to spend £25. It’s a small price to pay for the amusing stories and photographic evidence that we now all have the honour of cherishing.

The Royal Weekend - Part Two: Flip Cup

After devouring a massive Sunday roast with my family, I spent the following hours resting my swollen stomach until I had to drag my sorry self from my bed and start getting ready for another night of low-cost drinking at my friends’ house. Unlike Friday, I had a further journey to make. My boyfriend, two friends and I all gathered at my house and then began our journey.

One of the reasons summer makes for a much happier Stephanie, is that waiting for public transport becomes so much more tolerable, and considering the amount of time I spend on public transport, it makes my life in general, a lot better. When it’s -1000 degrees outside and you’re waiting for a bus, two minutes feels likes twenty. The cold increases your impatience and even the most relaxed, laid back person becomes grumpy, annoyed and rude. As soon as you see that glimpse of red turning the corner, you try your best to push your way to the front of the line; past the old lady who’s practically frozen to the pavement; past the woman with three kids and a buggy with twelve bags hanging off of it; just so you can start defrosting your toes those few seconds earlier.

In the summer, we find ourselves on the other side of the spectrum. That bus can take it’s time! Even in the evening the heat of the day continues into the night and sooths you. Who cares if you have to wait two minutes or twenty? The warmth relaxes you, and the cool breeze carries all your impatience away with it. I wish it could be summer all the time.

The alcohol was unleashed as soon as we arrived. We rid ourselves of our jackets, filled our glasses and cracked open our cans. We relaxed for a while and let the toxins flood our veins. Like on Friday, the timeline of events is probably inaccurate in my mind, but I have a lot more clarity of certain things than the disastrous drinking session that occurred earlier that weekend. I definitely prefer this situation to the night I thought I had had being almost entirely different to what had happened in reality.

Some of you may remember “The Height Wall” that I mentioned in a previous blog depicting a night spent at the same residence. For those of you who may not, I’m sure you can guess what it entails. It’s where the guests of said house are measured. At present, I’m the reigning champion for being the shortest; I’m waiting for the day someone steals that title from me. Alas, my insignificant stature was further enhanced when another name was added to the higher section of the wall, yet still not the tallest. I do not hesitate in saying that the day someone triumphs over that top name, I will be significantly intimidated and possibly slightly terrified.

Let the drinking games begin!

From the moment we’d arrived the words “Flip Cup” had been repeated several times, and it took that many times for me to understand the rules of the game, despite its’ simplicity. I’ll break it down for you.

Step One: Split into two teams.

Step Two: Stand in a line.

Step Three: The first person in the line must down their drink, place their cup on the edge of the table and flip it until it lands standing on its head or bottom.

Step Four: Continue along the line until someone wins.

Simples.

We all gathered in the kitchen and armed ourselves with a drink, with a few of us trying to get in a sneaky practice session before the game began. The intensity of merely attempting to flip a plastic cup is outstanding. The room erupted into noise as we cheered each other on. It’s a surprisingly tricky task, especially when you’ve drunk enough that getting the cup to balance on the edge of the table is a trial in itself. Before we’d partaken in this activity, I’d been ready for bed, but now the adrenaline was pumping through my alcohol ridden veins, pushing it aside and taking command, forcing me to become increasingly excited. My enthusiasm aided my personal success, and combined with the pure skill of my teammates, we won the first two rounds. However, the groups were then changed and the stereotypical “boys vs. girls” combination was imposed and unfortunately, by a very close call, the boys were victorious.

After a further few drinking games tiredness began to engulf me. At first my chosen bed was the kitchen table, but after realising this was highly uncomfortable I carried myself to a comfy armchair. What exactly happened after I settled there, I’m not entirely sure. I remember not wanting my boyfriend to be more than an inch away from me, a cab being called and being told Nathan from Misfits isn’t going to be in the next series.

The final moment of hilarity occurred upon our departure. We were called and our cab driver told us he was outside, so we all began to gather our belongings. I was standing by the front door when my friend revealed that he couldn’t find his shoes. I watched with slight irritation at the time, but now with a smile on my face at the memory. The melancholy expression he wore on his face as his worried eyes darted around, whilst making his way from room to room, was a sight I’m glad I had the opportunity to witness. It had to be him. He’s a legend when it comes to drunken tales. I will never, for as long as I live, forget him telling me, “I was so drunk once, that I thought it’d be a good idea to pick up puddles and put them in my pocket.”

After he eventually found them, we got into our cab and were taken home. My boyfriend served me well when we got home; letting me sprawl over him in the cab whilst I moaned about feeling sick and making me toast whilst I curled up in his bed. I’m so very grateful for this, as my hangover ceased to exist the next day.

Overall it was indeed a Royal Weekend. I had an amazing couple of nights with my friends and my boyfriend. If only the Prince could get married every weekend.

The Royal Weekend - Part One: Everyone's Had A Vodka Night

I doubt that the British public have ever been so excited about a wedding. Not anyone’s sons or daughters, or possibly even the day they themselves tied the knot with their better half. And let’s not be foolish in thinking that anyone actually cares that we now know who our future Queen is to be. No, our excitement stemmed from the prospect of an extra two days off work, when we’d already had a long weekend the week before. We were blessed with a few more hours in bed and the choice of lounging around in the sun instead of the recurrent torture of watching it shine down upon the streets outside of our office buildings.

I, like most, was extremely excited about this, except for the fact they kinda screwed us over by having the wedding at 11:00am; there went my extra long lazy lay in. Nonetheless, I got up to watch the historic moment unfold. Other than this, I didn’t have many other plans for the weekend. My wish, in all honesty, was to spend copious amounts of time with my boyfriend. As it turned out, I was granted this. The weekend ahead of me was like a blast from the past, from my early teenage years to be precise, friends’ houses, far too much cheap vodka and drinking games galore.

Friday night got the ball rolling. After watching William struggling to get the ring on Kate’s finger, followed by much praying and horse poop, I decided to go about my day, eating crumpets and sitting on my laptop, when my friend text me telling me he had a free house. I have to admit he did rather well at gathering the amount of people he did at such short notice. I, of course, never turn down an opportunity to get drunk in a nice warm house for less than a tenna.

The whole night is a complete jumbled up blur. I’m certain the things I remember are all in the wrong order and possibly a few of my memories didn’t happen at all or are complete misinterpretations of what truly happened. From sitting in the bathroom with my friend for unprecedented periods of time, our conversation flowing endlessly until someone interrupted us with their full bladder, to having discussions about sex and contraception with a girl I barely know. My musings were confirmed when I later conversed with others, who revealed that everyone had left in a different order to what I had thought and that me and my boyfriend were the last to leave.

A true Vodka Night. I gradually got more and more drunk, as one does when consuming vast amounts of alcohol. But vodka is a cruel form of alcohol. It’s deceiving. It makes you think you’re safe. It wipes your memory of all previous experiences, providing you with a false sense of security. It’s misleading you. It’s like the boy you can’t give up; he’ll convince you that the last crime he committed against your heart was the last and that he won’t hurt you this time. But this is one love interest that will never change his ways. I am the fool who is enticed back into his manipulative grasp every time.

After hours of talking and laughter, the crowd that had gathered began to disperse. It was at this point that the vodka had it's way with me yet again. One swift slap around the head and it knocked all sense and composure out of me. I started to argue with my boyfriend about the simple fact of getting a cab home to prevent me from being raped, murdered, or most likely, falling over, smacking my head on the curb, and laying unconscious in the gutter all night, on the usual five minute walk home. Eventually, after a lot of strife, I agreed to take the easier journey. I cannot fathom what made me think I was capable of surviving the walk home by myself. When you're drunk, whilst your mind and body are juxtaposed, they are no longer symbiotic; your mind tells you you have the ability of achieving a lot more than your body is realistically able. Fortunately, I was saved from myself and returned home in one piece.

This was yet another one of those nights that makes me wonder how I’ve managed to keep my boyfriend for so long. However, I put the night behind me and was lucky enough to spend a lovely evening with him on Saturday night, pertinently, watching The Hangover and peacefully falling asleep in his arms.