I don’t usually write blogs to fan requests–let’s face it: I don’t really have any fans. But today, for the first time, I present The Drunk Blog (by request):
I am just having the best time. Are you having the best time? I hope so. Man, champagne is so fun. How many have I had? Like, three? OH MY GOD, I AM STARVING!
Holy shit, you guys, lunch is being served! Man, I am going to murder me some prawns.
Gee, this line is kind of long. Hey, person who I barely ever talk to! How are things going? Tell me your story. God, that is a strange choice of dress. Her eyes don’t quite follow you when you talk. I wonder whether she’s had her teeth done. Wow, we’re so close to the front! What are you guys going to get? Should I get one of those giant lamb shanks? No, I shouldn’t.
Fuck, I’m in white. Why did I not think of this when I loaded my plate with gravy? Nobody touch me or I swear I will punch you.
Hey, everyone at my table! What food did you guys get? Went for the lamb shank? Good stuff. I’m jealous. No, I do not want a bite. Please back away from the white dress. I never noticed his eyes before. They’re so intense. He’s definitely judging me. Tell a joke. Be funny. Shit.
Yes, photos! I love photos. Excuse me while I pick spinach from my teeth. What did I even eat? I hope nobody was watching. That went down way too easily. At least nobody will think I’m anorexic. Don’t go to the toilet within the next thirty minutes or they’ll call you bulimic. Yeah! Smiling for the camera! I’m going to make a stupid face, you guys. I don’t even care. Check out my tongue. I’m like the next Miley Cyrus.
Oh, hey person who could easily fire me if I say something offensive! I do love your tie. Classic observation about the buffet. You’re hilarious. Where do I look? Is eye contact too aggressive? Pick something across the room and alternate between it and his face. DON’T LOOK AT HIS CROTCH. Oh, you did. Fantastic…pants, sir. I do want another drink. Thank you for offering.
Let’s dance! Watch me dance, y’all! God, I am Beyonce right here. Are there talent scouts here? Because I deserve a contract.
A bottle? Sure, why not! The bar tab stops in half an hour. You guys are so smart! What? I have to walk over there and get one too? This could be interesting. Man, the bar guy has tiny eyes for the size of his head. And gappy teeth. But what a sense of humour. I hope he has a nice girl in his life. Or guy? Maybe he’s gay. I am not good at picking it. Stop staring now. Thanks, bar guy!
Sure, I’d love to kick on somewhere! That is an amazing and well-thought-out choice to make.
Well, thank you for the sleazy compliment noticeably-short cocky dude walking with us into the bar. There are jacuzzis up there, huh? Would I get in? No way. Well, not for free. How much would it take? A thousand bucks. I would get in there for a thousand bucks. Deal. There is no fucking way I’m getting in that jacuzzi. I am naked under this dress. But a thousand bucks would be nice. Please stop considering effectively prostituting yourself. We’ll see. I have to go to the bar with my friends now.
You have a what? A bar tab? Well, why didn’t you say so? We would love to hang out with you. If you buy drinks for all of us.
(stage whisper) Are you guys ok with this? I’m not actually going to get into the jacuzzi. It’s all good. No, he wants to buy us drinks. It would be rude to say no, right?
Yes, please! One each!
Shots? No… well, all right.
More shots? Guys, no, this isn’t good for me. I know they were a gift from Bar Tab Guy. You’re right. It is just a tiny little shot.
Where is the bathroom?!
God, isn’t peeing great? Definitely said that out loud. I’m getting some nods though, so things are fine.
Is anyone else starving? Lunch was ages ago. Yeah, food, let’s go!
This was a longer walk than was indicated. Where is the damn food? A cab? I’m not paying for that. It’s only like one kilometre.
Oh, sweet, life-giving food! Splitting the bill sucks. Here’s 20. I don’t even know.
Let’s go home. No? More bars? Well, you seem to know what you’re talking about?
Did these shots have milk in them? I’m not OK with that. This is not fun. I need to leave before this reaches my stomach.
Cab line! Na na na na na na na na cab line!
God, so tired. Are you tired? You look tired. Don’t fall asleep in the cab, OK? And text me when you get home.
Cold bolognese sauce? Yes. Yes times infinity.
Sleepy time. I love you guys.
To give you some background, I’m not a raging alcoholic (because I realise this post kind of contradicts this one), and I never ever write drunk. It worked for Hemingway, but I suspect that’s because quill and ink give you less of a spin-out than a glowing screen. Far from being a creative genius when intoxicated, I become a six-year-old whose most favourite game ever is Annoy the Adults. I don’t drink very often either, so when it happens, it’s kind of momentous. I don’t aim to get so wasted that I can’t feel my teeth (something my mum told me to watch out for when drinking), but occasions come up. Occasions like the work Christmas party.
And so it was that on Friday, I spent the better part of ten hours imbibing every toxic liquid that was thrust at me.
“Have some more champagne,” disembodied hands wailed at me.
“What do you want?” Water. “Vodka it is!”
“Which bar shall we go to next?” My bed. “So, Our Place?”
Other people just seem to want to see me drunk. To be honest, none of the things that I’ve written above is strictly true to my thoughts on the day (so if you were there, don’t read into the gap-toothed, bug-eyed comments). This is because I don’t remember my thoughts on the day. I just hope to hell that I didn’t say any of them aloud.
P.S. I don’t have a hangover day. I have a hangover weekend. Don’t even talk to me about New Years Eve.