Last night when I got home from work, BF had had another great big row with Chum, who for a friend, makes a fucking good enemy. As there wasn�t anything for dinner we thought we�d go out for a couple of drinks and then get supper when we got in and felt a bit more like eating.
Just walked down to the workies and started on the whisky. By 9.30 I was totally shitfaced pleasantly merry and getting a bit hungry. The workies doesn�t serve food and the Chinese isn�t open on Tuesdays (what is it with the Chinese on Tuesdays? They�re happy to open just about any other day of the year � Christmas Eve, Easter Sunday, no bother � but a Tuesday?! Oooo, no sireee, never on a Tuesday. If there�s any Chinese people reading, can you let me know if Tuesdays are particularly special to Chinese people, then I can stop being pissed off by not being able to get salt and pepper prawns and a half of crispy duck on the days which have just added to the pile of shit that was Monday.)so I nipped into the neighbouring Tesco Express for supplies to take home with us.
I was having a bit of trauma getting a garlic baguette into the basket � there was some handle/dimensions/spatial awareness drama going on � and figured I may possibly have drunk too much. This was confirmed by my other purchases; Peanut Butter KitKat, two Ripples, bag of coffee (for work) and a box of sushi (only slightly out of date).
Went back to the club and had another drink. Ate the KitKat on the way as I didn�t want BF to know that I am a shameless glutton. That I stuffed three quarters of it into my mouth on the steps of the club (ie in full view of the security door camera) is further testament to my less than sober state.
When we got home, I made a pizza and cooked the garlic bread. I couldn�t tell you whether it was nice or not as I cant remember. I CAN remember sitting on the sofa afterwards and thinking �Im sure there�s something else Im supposed to be doing tonight�. BF rolled a joint but I was too wasted to smoke any of it and I went upstairs to bed.
This morning I had the tell-tale watery mouth and churning stomach which foretells a hangover of gargantuan proportions. Desperate measures, my friends. A pint of warm water to soothe the stomach (and rehydrate the shrivelled cells of my raisin brain), then downstairs for a quick double. NO! Not more whisky! A double dose of fizzy vitamin C, you silly things! Even tho it tastes like the inside of Satan�s rectum (but fizzy) it does seem to do the trick. I�d made a pot of weapons grade coffee but figured the inevitable peristaltic rush which would surely follow its ingestion was just not worth the risk so I left that well alone.
Got washed and dressed without too much incident but then was overcome with a feeling of impending�well�.death, actually, that I thought it best to get back into bed for a while. Lets face it, if you�re going to die an untimely death from a cheap whisky hangover, the least you can do is go peacefully in your own bed, not face down on the Axminster at the top of the stairs.
BF was a bit surprised that I got back into bed, particularly as I was wearing a pin-stripe trouser suit. As he snuggled up to me and coughed consumptively in my ear (God! He has SO got to give up smoking. Its like lying next to Bob Fleming) I remembered what it was I hadn�t done the night before. A text just before I left work to come home, (in reply to one that Id sent which said �Whats the plan tonight?�) had said �Drink, Food, Joint, Shag�. Silly me, I�d forgotten to shag my boyfriend. Never mind.
By the time I got up again it was too late for me to do anything other than get in the car and drive to work. Id been there about half an hour before I remembered that I didn�t have any makeup on and I hadn�t done my hair.
Wasn�t sure I could convince everyone in the company that it was Look Like Paula Yates In Her Final Days Day so managed to find a lipstick and some mascara in the bottom of my bag. There wasn�t much that could be done for the hair except put a bit of water on it and re-gummify the half a pound of wax I�d put on it last night before we went out. Briefly toyed with the idea of pulling a sickie but thought better of it.
At about one minute past 9 (ie when my co-workers had finally showed up) I got an email from our magazine publishers reminding me that several articles were overdue for this months magazine. Actually the email was sent to that stupid Marketing Moron who I complained about (and who left, rather abruptly, about ten days later) but had been copied to me in my capacity as Queen of Efficiency.
A brief chat with Boss Lady, which I�d like to call �How Much of this Shit Can I Offload?� has left me with about a dozen articles to write by tomorrow lunchtime.
Cos I am a journalist now. Apparently.
The largest of these articles is a double page spread on an international competition at which my company had an entrant. I didn�t go to the competition. I don�t know anything about it. Ive been given about 30 photographs of people I don�t recognise doing stuff I don�t understand. Ive also been given typewritten profiles of the entrants. There are about thirty of them and they�re from all over the world.
The first profile in the stack is for a gentleman with a very long Asian sounding name. Id guess he�s Malaysian or something like that. His first name is Phubaraum. The profile points out (presumably as he has a long and complicated name) he is known as Poo.
I have to write a two page spread on Poo. And his chums.
A prize in the mail to anyone who can come up with a headline for that article.
Later
s
X
PS The moral of the story. Don�t go on the piss and then try and write about Poo. Whatever you write will be shite.
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