the evening after the morning after

Let me share with you a hard-won life lesson that I feel will benefit you all:

Never followed a naked man into a bar and expect it to end well.

Some of you may have received a text to this effect (I think I was still drunk as I also sent it to my mother who, understandably, rang me immediately with the following questions:

a) why was he naked? dunno. Got distracted by beer and forgot to ask, plus, not sure I would have recognised him with his clothes on.

b) where was Colin? working. But seemed to take it all in his stride when I told him – possibly as he was distracted by having to wrestle some duvet off me. Apparently he spent the night clinging to the thin strip of mattress that I wasn’t occupying, although this is all hearsay as I was passed out cold and remember nothing past the final shot of schnapps. 

c) have I spoken to my brother recently? totally off topic of nude males, but after I answered questions a) and b) she moved on to other things. Remember – she married my dad, I have a sib and this shit is genetic. )

I have received, in return, a number of concerned replies (including one from Jeff who noted that these things go better if you are the man, which is something to consider) so I would be remiss if I did not relay to you the events of the evening:

• Hattie was hanging about until I finished as her phone-charger went AWOL, her battery was down to one bar and I have a spare. We wandered down to Mancinis – as is our occasional wont – and had a couple of beers. Jen was closing up so we stood on the doorstep with her and had a smoke. Well, Jen and I were smoking – Hattie was squinting fiercely over my left shoulder.
• A man was running up and down Great Western Road.
• Naked.
• Except for his trainers.
• We watched him run into the Bier Halle and decided, as concerned citizens, that we should check that he wasn’t suffering from frostbite so we crossed the road and had another cigarette whilst staring in the windows.
• Naked man peers round the door, makes as if to speak, then shrugs and goes back inside giving the distinct impression that we are peculiar.
• Jen notices that the naked man has put his clothes back on so she goes home.
• Hattie and I decide that as we’ve hung about, noses pressed to the glass, it would be rude not to buy anything so we  go into the bar where she gets immediately involved in the pub quiz and reveals herself to be a 14-year-old-boy-with-boobs as she has an encylopedic knowledge of the Star Wars movies. Seriously, it was a Star Wars round, the team at the bar were at a loss and Ms Skywalker saved the day.
• I got bored and had another beer. And possibly a shot. And then another beer. Or a shot – I can’t remember. And then the quiz team bought us a drink for helping, and then no-one won the quiz so the compere put the cash prize behind the bar and bought the whole pub a shot and that’s where it gets a little fuzzy…

Hattie rang me in the morning – which was somewhat of a surprise as I knew she was very low on battery and I had absolutely no recollection of her coming to the house, picking up the charger, sniggering, and leaving me to pass out, only to discover as she shut the door behind her that she couldn’t find her keys.

Apparently she sat on my door stoop for 20 minutes, carefully emptying both her bags out, arranging her belongings in a neat circle around her as she hunted for the elusive little buggers, slightly concerned that she would still be there when Colin came home from work and would therefore have to beg a couch for the night whilst he gave her A Look and raised an eyebrow. (I feel her pain – I get The Look on a regular basis. Particularly when I beg for KFC).

So, in conclusion:

• My hangover was epic.
• Thank you to all those who responded to the sausage-roll SOS – I ate them all and they were mightily appreciated.
• If Jill is reading this I am obviously exaggerating the events of Sunday 15th November and I am in no way dragging your daughter into habits of debauchery and drunkeness. Well, no more than once a fortnight, any way.

UPDATE: Hattie found out why the guy was naked! He and a woman were having a dance-off (???!) and the compere said ” no-one wins until we have some clothes off” (?????%@^?) so she took off her cardi and when she turned around he was stark-bollock-naked and heading out the door.

A totally rational explanation!

And yes, mum, I heard from G today. He’s fine. Sends love. Ask him to get you four pairs of Converse trainers – that always works for me when I want a response…

bar-tender’s joke

In the spirit of Biblo* – given that it has been noted on many occasions that I don’t update on a regular basis – I would like to share with you a moment which made me glad to be a journalism major:

Last customer, last order in a bar which has just totally scrubbed and polished every surface, ledge and piece of equipment in the building and whose staff are champing at the bit to leave:

Barman: what can I get you?

Customer: a bellini, two rusty nails and a mojito please.

Barman: @*^%!

 

 

 

 

 

 

*paying attention to all criticism, be it constructive or just plain irritating, and acting upon such commentary in the calm and rational manner which all visitors have come to expect.**

** cue hysterical laughter 

I wanna be like common people…

I was asked to name two normal people the other day. People who I actually know who have been in the shop at least once. Easy, right?

Wrong.

I came up with one who we all agreed appears to be normal, but as we don’t know his name (and he works as a rep which tends to suggest barrow-boy tendencies of the knuckle-duster variety) we had to strike him off the list.

Then I drew a blank.

Tiff? Dubious obsession with Axl.

V? Can get a little…exact…about alphabetizing crime fiction.

Neil? Tech. Has a colour-coded approach to fleeces. Need I say more?

So then I thought, define normal. But I tried and all I came up with was the dictionary.com trifecta of:

1. conforming to the standard or the common type.

2. serving to establish a standard.

or,

3. Psychological:

a) approximately average in any psychological trait as intelligence, personality or emotional adjustment.

b) free from any mental disorder; sane

To which my response is:

1. According to who?

2. Does setting a standard of lunacy seldom seen outside of the more surreal Mash episodes count?

or:

3. 

a) Do we include the tech dudes in this calculation of the mean? They may possess stratospheric IQ’s but they also get ridiculously excited about UBUNTU Cola.*

b) Define sane in terms of the West End and its predeliction for patchouli scented candles in a power-cut. Go on, I DARE YOU.

So I’ve come to the conclusion that Biblo has it’s own sphere – a blue bubble within which the most random acts appear utterly mundane, like the old expression ‘normal for Norfolk’.

Except for Hattie. Nothing she does is normal. Which brings me to my point – can’t wait ’til she comes home. It’s totally normal without her.

 

 

 

* ask a geek to explain. I had to interrupt them in the midst of a debate about operating systems. I risked my life in the quest of knowledge – so should you.

Saturday

Being a part owner of a book shop (RBS owns the rest. Don’t ask) I figured that it was about time that I textually researched weightloss and fitness. To this end I picked up Anita Naik’s The Lazy Girl’s Guide to a Fabulous Body.

I’m a speed reader, so I’m already on chapter 12.

Lounging in bed, Supernatural re-runs playing on the tv, dribbling chocolate sauce down my pj’s, I calculate that I should be bikini ready by tomorrow.

Yay!