Annie Rhiannon

Monday, May 22, 2006

Oh God

Oh god. Why can't I get outrageously, embarrassingly drunk in front of a bar full of strangers? Why does it have to be at The Boyfriend's bosses' Eurovision party at their beautiful home in the suburbs?

I was warned about the punch—that it was probably lethal—but I couldn't believe that something that tasted like Ribena could be alcoholic, so I knocked it back like it was, em, Ribena.

I quickly developed a drunken crush on the only teenager at the party. Was hoping it had gone unnoticed, but The Boyfriend pointed out that not only was I laughing far too loudly at his jokes, letting my hand linger too long on his lower back, but I let him go home with my gorgeous pink Diesel sunglasses. Oh god. Have turned into middle-aged desperate old perv overnight. Should have been wearing leopard-print and drinking gin & tonics.

After hogging the mic on Singstar™ for the best part of an hour (oh god, can't sing at all, especially not Madonna, Cher, Franz Ferdinand or Kylie) I wisely decided, much to everyone's relief, that it was time for bed and went home only to vomit all over my bedroom. The Boyfriend very kindly got me a bucket and held my hair out of my face (even though it's not really long enough to get in my face in the first place). Oh god. Haven't thrown up from drinking since my first night out in Reykjavík, when I fell outside of Bar 11 to puke in the gutter — only to go straight back in and get off with some random English guy by mistake. Oh god. Have regressed back to an unruly teenager overnight. Should have been wearing Doc Martens and drinking super-strength cider.

Am going to try to stay sober now until at least Wednesday, when I leave for London and will have no choice but to get drunk on nasty Asti with old friends.

15 comments:

  1. Truculent Horse22.5.06

    Ah yes, 'Nigel' wasn't it?
    I remember the night well, sort of, in that there were a lot of grazed knees the next day.

    I love playing around those summertime roadworks and wobbly footbridge entrances to bars.

    Many years ago I once vomited a lot in 22, got bundled into a taxi, leapt out when I spotted the 'man of my dreams' walking near my house, got off with him and subsequently went out with him for six months. After which he broke my heart.

    It's always 'those' nights isn't it?

    You're right. I should really get my own blog.

    I bet you were wonderful at the singing.

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  2. I got you baaaabe...

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  3. I was NOT wonderful at the singing. How come I always sound great in my bathroom but terrible In Real Life?

    "Nigel" oh god, that was it. I thought it was something like that, Clive or something. Was that the Fin that you jumped out of the cab for? My email is fucked up btw.

    Bjarni: *cringe*

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  4. Truculent Horse22.5.06

    Sigh,

    Yes it was the Finn. He obviously stands out amongst my many tales of heartbreak.

    I am quite sure that I would have found you wonderful had I been there. If only in comparison to me.

    Have you heard me sing? No? Well there's a reason for that.

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  5. Actually, no, never. Which is strange. We'll sing together on our road trips when you get back here. In the countryside nobody can hear you scream.

    And okay, I spelt "Finn" wrong. But that's not nearly as funny as ordering an expresso.

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  6. Truculent Horse22.5.06

    We were in a RUSH Annie!

    There will be no singing. I even have trouble with that high bit of 'Happy Birthday'.

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  7. You're hilarious. Get a blog. That way we can double the amount of times we reassure each other how hilarious we are.

    I changed that picture, btw. And my email is working again now so I will reply.

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  8. I always mime to Happy Birthday.

    How was Eurovision? I believe politics, once again, stood in the way of our "cutting edge" entry.

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  9. Bjarni, please can you ask your teenage co-worker for the safe return of my pink Diesel sunglasses?

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  10. It was disgusting! The whole show was disgusting. Finland made a complete mockery of what should have been a tasteful and serious contest.

    The UK was so embarrassing I had to pretend to be Irish. What is it with us and paedophilia?

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  11. As soon as he shows up to work, I will! It's only 1pm after all. :-P

    I'll bet he's still sleeping it off somewhere, still wearing them.

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  13. Ribena coloured puke. Not good. I had a friend who insisted on drinking green Chatreuse (which tasted fucking vile) but he swore that it was the only drink that tasted the same going down and coming up.

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  14. Gross. I still feel a bit queasy actually. And I had chunks in my nose all day yesterday.

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  15. My advice is never eat kippers after drinking too much.

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