Tuesday, 21 February 2012

Handbag Vodka On Tour

I didn’t go out this weekend. Unheard of I know. But @susielovesvodka had a date and I couldn’t find a suitable enough victim/fella, to take me on one in time so I resigned myself to an evening in. It was probably wise to give my liver a rest before it started crying pure bile anyway. I was also going to give blogging a rest BUT to celebrate hitting the 1000 followers mark I decided to regale you with a retro twitter adventure.

Now back in November we were still twitter newbies, 68 and 32 followers respectively and not well into the scouse twitter scene like we are now. In fact we were unaware there even WAS a scouse twitter scene. Hell I only ended up following @JesusChristFTM in August because I liked his picture. Even he was light on the follower front at that time. See? I’m a ground leveller me. Anyway we used to chat on the reggers to @JoeThompson_ a sound cockney geezer and decided to go on our first twitter adventure to partyLondon style. Apparently he was gonna show us scousers how it was done. Pfft.

So the £1 Megabus got booked cos we like to travel in style, and a luxury 1 star B&B bang in the centre ofLondon right by Victoria station. Swerve getting taxis out to zone 5, I haven’t got Londoner dough. For 6 hours on the coach down there we laughed at @JesusChristFTM’s tweets and speculated about who he might be. I’m sure every scouse twitterer has done the same. At this point though we never dreamt we’d find out who he was, let alone be able to count him as a friend, just goes to show you never know where life’s gonna take you. But that’s a tale for another time.

This was Susan’s first trip to London so we did a few of the sight seeing bits. My main highlight was goin to laugh at the weapons camped outside St Pauls Cathedral. Occupy My Hoop you stupid hippy scruffs.

At the time I was dating Mr Rugby, who I’m sorry, lookswise was a full on 10 out of 10. He was gorgeous. Ultimately dumped because he was younger than me and I was horrified that he didn’t know a) what Beetlejuice or The Goonies was b) what the cartoon Transformers advert was ‘robots in disguise’ and most importantly c) he had never seen the “Wooooooaaaaahhh Bodyform” advert which I believe defines my generation. Swerved.  I digress, Mr Rugby’s real name was Chris, and so me and Susan went out on Friday night to Covent Garden and began categorising London men into 2 categories. FTC (fitter than Chris) and not FTC. There were A LOT of FTC’s. Ladies, London is crawling with fitties.

Now about once a month my hormones start playing havoc with my emotions and I start feeling a bit needy and mushy. I hit this point about 11pm Friday night and I was steamin for a boss hug. Susan grabbed the nearest passing FTC and screeched at him “Ay you, give me mate a hug raaaaar now!” I know what you’re thinking, and yes, tequila and a lot of handbag vodka had been consumed at this point. The FTC caught completely off guard, bemusedly gave us both a good squeeze and bluntly we sent him packing. Yes we were flying the flag for scouse birds.

@susielovesvodka.....and tequila

Outside while trying to find the way to the tube Susan was handed a leaflet for free fish and chips. We couldn’t find the tube and ended up walking round in circles a few times. Each time Susan was handed a leaflet by the same guy for free fish and chips. By the end she was nearly in tears, “Does he think I’m a fat bitch? Waaaaaaa.” She cried herself to sleep using the leaflets to soak up her tears.

The next night was the night we were supposed to meet Joe so we headed back to Covent Garden and made our way to Roadhouse, some underground club we were assured was ‘sick’. We got there and the queue was 5 people wide and round the block and the bouncer informed us it was £20 to get in. Well let me tell you, I begrudge paying £3 to get in the Raz. I was norappy. We got on the blower to Joe and told him we were going to Leicester square to see what was going on down there. He was at the front of the queue and waved. So technically we got to see his arm and he got to see what outfits we were wearing. That counts as meeting someone right?

Anyway we picked up a couple of cockney escorts, as you do, an got them to take us to Leicester Sq. Everywhere seemed to be £20 to get in. This was a joke. Who the hell does London think it is? Don’t be thinking you’re better than Liverpool cos you ain’t. Nowhere is. We had a cheeky haggle with the ticket fellas and managed to get them to let us into some ‘dope’ club for £10 each and £15 each for the two lads.

Then disaster struck! There was metal detectors and handbag searchers on entry. They got onto our handbag vodka straight away and we had it confiscated. “Can we at least have it back on our way out?” I pleaded.
“Ee jib this then, we’re going.” We snatched out handbag vodka left the lads in there and stormed off. We needed to think of a new plan….
“Susan, stick it down your tights!”
We went to the Maccies bogs to regroup and put our plan B into action. It worked a treat. We got into Penthouse, the club next door sans Handbag Vodka but WITH Tights Vodka.

Penthouse it turns out was amazing. It didn’t make the best first impression though. The first floor was R’n’B and it stank, and I mean STANK of Billy Ocean. Think second floor of Mood vs Camel Club, on a hot day, in the Caribbean, after a zumba class in the middle of a deodorant ban, and you’re halfway there. We legged it upstairs and went the bar. I ordered two shots of tequila and two diet cokes and ignored the barmaids suspicious looks, “What? They searched our bags; give me a shot and a soft drink woman!” When she handed me back a couple of coins in change from a £20 note and Susan asked how much it was, I shook my head, I just didn’t have the heart to tell her.

Cut to us dancing like lunatics to Rihanna and Labrinth and fist pumping like we were in Jersey Shore whilst clutching our gold plated extra strong vodka and diet cokes. I looked out of the window; we were 8 floors up and overlooking Leicester Square. Our view was the London eye and we could tell the time off Big Ben. It was a night I’ll always remember.

Next thing we knew however the DJ was winding the night down and the lights were coming on. It was only 3am. We were just getting warmed up. Screw you London! Cheeky gets, if I pay u a tenner to get in u play music until my feet bleed! That’s the deal, and my feet weren’t even aching at this point.

We collared some club promoter outside who told us about this moody little place called Den down the other end of Shaftesbury avenue that was open til 9am. Yeh that’ll do nicely. So we paid yet another entry fee for a ticket and set off to find this club armed with nothing but iphone maps and a vague notion of the direction we were heading.

Oh my god it took what seemed like hours to find it. We kept picking up more and more party pilgrims along the way. I nearly pissed myself with excitement when I found a discarded hoover knockin about in a shop doorway. Cue us casually hoovering up, down and all around Shaftesbury Avenue at 4am while nearly wetting ourselves laughing. Eventually we found Den and danced until the handbag vodka ran out and until the tubes began again in the morning.

giving Shaftesbury Avenue a good suck

At 7am Sunday morning before going back to the hotel we were due to check out of at 10am(!), we decided to go to Maccies for a brekkie. The toilets were fenced off and the golden seal was a distant memory at this point so we dropped and did a ninja roll (which was extremely elegant….in our heads) under the ropes and snuck down to the bogs before the zombies behind the counter with the spotty grids could collar us.

On the tube home with a face smeared with red sauce,  I cackled away at the other passengers, “AAAAAAAAHHHH! You’re in work an we’re not! We’re pissed.” Then a feeling of dread swept over me, “Oh shit, I’m in work tomorrow. Devoed.”

We got back the hotel and had a total of an hours kip before checking out and slowly died a death in Starbucks until it was time to get on the coach home. Fuck me that was the worst 6 hours of my life. It didn’t help that there were 6 scouse birds screechin the whole way home who couldn’t have had more than 6 brain cells between them. I mean these were the thickest bints you’ve ever heard in your life. Comin out with shouts like, “America doesn’t have a queen cos they haven’t got any history” and
“Yano the way we’ve got the echo, whats Londonslocal paper?”
“It’s the London Echo yano”
“Is it?”
And my personal favourite, “Omg look at those red yellow lines, I’ve heard about them but I’ve never seen them, I need to take a picture quick!”. Really love?
I was fucking fumin the whole way home. Not even @JesusChristFTM’s tweets could make me crack a smile.
And if any of those girls ever learn how to read and read this, you’ll know who you are. Let me tell you something. I hate you and if I ever see you again I’m gonna chop your head off with a tin of Fray Bentos, steak & kidney flavour – ninja star style.




Ps. Never be scared to go on an adventure.
Tuesday, 14 February 2012

50 first dates

Well not 50 first dates, but seeing as it's Valentines day I thought I'd get into the festive spirit and share with you some of the first dates I've experienced. None of these led to second dates. So whether you're single or in a relationship - either way just be glad you're not me.

1. The Vampire Soldier.

I met this fella back when I used to work in a face to face customer service job (something which I thank my lucky stars every day that I no longer do), we got on well, we had a bit of banter and a bit of the old eye sex and that was that. He was a soldier and he went back to Afghanistan or wherever. Anyway about a year later he came back in and we swapped numbers. He told me how he'd always remembered me but he'd just started seeing someone when he'd been back on leave early on in the year. I took that as my cue to stop texting him and thought nothing more of it. A few weeks later while I was on holiday I got a text saying he's split up with this bird and did I want to go out. "Sure." I thought. Unfortunately it was all downhill from there.

First of all I got to the bar, he was nowhere to be seen so I got the bevvies in. I'm sound like that. He turns up twenty minutes later with no apology and said he'd been drinking beers and lost track of time. Really?? He then told me how upset he was because he'd just been dumped that day. Wait a minute.....What??! I was young back then and inexperienced in the world of dating so I gave him the benefit of the doubt and just went with it. After a couple of drinks we went over to the Living Room on Victoria Street (for you out of towners) and it was my round. Yeh I'd worked out he wasn't a gent by this point. So i'm queing up at the bar in my backless dress and I feel him behind me. Next thing I know he bites me. Now I'm not talking a playful nibble I'm talking like a rabid dog. It hurt. I spun round as if Satan himself had just rammed a hot poker up me arse, "Did you just BITE me?" His answer to this was to bend down and bite me again, harder, on the bottom of my back. IN THE MIDDLE OF THE LIVING ROOM!! I was mortified! Game over pal. Taxi! He followed me outside and delivered the final punchline, "So we goin back to yours or mine?" Yeah. Really.

2. Benjamin Button

Now Im happy being single at the moment, but there have been times I haven't been so happy and I'm ashamed to say I've ventured into the world of online dating. For the record, every single one of those dates has made this blog. Dating sites are as infested with psychos as Frankie Cocozzas undies are infested with crabs. Don't do it, unless ur a weirdo yourself, in which case, knock yourself out! This is one of those dates.

I'd been talking to Jack for about a week or so. He was funny, I was funny....but he was from Widnes. I should have known it'd be disastrous. I had to meet him off the train at Lime Street (urgh) and we went to a nearby bar. He got through half of his first pint and went the toilet. We chatted a little more. He finished his first pint and went the toilet. More chatting. Some extremely crude jokes on his part, enough to offend even me and I consider myself pretty unshockable. He got through half his second pint and went the toilet. He finished his second pint and went the toilet. I was gettin a bit pissed off by this point. I mean I myself know what it's like when you've broken the golden seal but this fella was takin the piss, no pun intended. He had to empty his bladder at exactly every half pint point. Plus I couldn't get over the fact that he was 22 and had a combover to cover the fact he was going bald. He was prematurely bald AND incontinent. Either that or he had a seeeerrrrious beak problem. Or he was texting another girl. None of this was attracting me. I decided to wrap up the date and made my excuses to go, that when he bowled me over with "So are we going back to yours yeh?" Er no love. No.

3. The Posh Twat

After the disastrous date with Jack, a few weeks later I found myself agreeing to a date with Ben. Ahhh Ben. Ben, Ben, Ben, Ben, Ben. Where do I start with Ben?

We'd again been chatting online for about a week and decided to go to the comedy club on the albert dock for something a bit different. Now Ben was from London and had moved up here a few months previously for work. I trotted off to Circo in a killer dress and heels expecting to be meeting up with some sexy cockney talking geezer. I nearly died. He was wearing Deirdre Barlow specs, a bow tie and a pullover. I shit you not. He reached out and shook my hand "Hi I'm Ben." Yup he talked like an 80's yuppy. On more than one occasion he actually said, without a hint of irony, "Yar" instead of yes. Chatting with him, not only was he a Conservative voting city worker, he was also a member of the Countryside Alliance. i.e. pro fox hunting and all that jazz. Sometimes do you ever just stop and think "How did my life so far lead up to this point?" The date with Ben was one of them moments - and it was about to get worse. We went the comedy club, the scouse comedians and vodka helped to take my mind off the fact I was sitting next to a walking, talking shame-bomb for half an hour, but the interval soon came round and I was forced to start chatting again. I hate ironing and I used to get my ironing done by some woman round by ours who'd come and pick it up and drop it all off again a couple of days later for £20. This was pre-recession days and before I'd learnt how to shake something before hanging it up to dry. This somehow came up in conversation and Ben said, "Oh well you wouldn't make a very good housewife would you?", I looked at him, he didn't seem to be joking. He pressed on, "So how many children do you want to have?" Jesus this man meant business! "None" I replied, "I hate kids." He looked annoyed, "Right we should leave this conversation for another time because I want lots of kids." WHAT??? I had a feeling Ben was only dating me for my womb. I ended the date as it began, with a shaking of hands. When Ben text me the next day inviting me out for dinner I politely declined with a 'I think we want different things'. Very, very different things.

4. The Sweet Gobbler

Another internet date. Like an on-off relationship, you keep going back hoping that you can work it out, that things will be different this time. NO. 

This guy had a grin that made Julia Roberts smile look like a cats arsehole. It was fucking huge. Freakishly so. He looked like the Joker every time he smiled and it FREAKED.ME.OUT. He very shadily wouldn't tell me what he did for a living. Now you should never refuse to tell me something because it absolutely drives me mad. I need to know things. I have a natural curiosity. This guy was making out like he was some sort of mafia boss. I eventually got it out of him that he owned a cafe and had purchased the fridges for it illegally. Oh wow. Big deal. Do I look like an undercover policewoman? Give a shit. He then told me how some smackhead used to come in every day and buy her sprog a Twix for breakfast. One morning...for a laugh apparently...he locked the kid in one of the glass front fridges for an hour and laughed at it. I hope it wasn't on at the time, I really do. He then went the bar in the Ship & Mitre and came back with a ridiculous amount of jelly sweets which they sell above the bar. He then stuffed every last one in his mouth - without explanation. I went the bogs and did a runner. Fuck that.

5. Jimmy Carr

I obviously didn't really date Jimmy Carr. Last August I split up with my ex just before the Mathew Street Festival. I was made up if I'm honest. He was a whole world of hassle. But that's a tale for another time. 

So of course me and @Susielovesvodka went the festival and had Bubba Kegs (like giant flask cups) the size of our heads filled with vodka and cranberry juice and a decent few cans of cider. We were trawling the streets hammered and causing a general nuisance of ourselves.
We got talking to a fella who was cracking the funnies left right and centre. He had a certain look of Jimmy Carr about him sure, but in my vodka buzz I could deal with that. Funny men really do it for me, well more than fitties, I quite liked him. Next thing this fat mess bounced over screeching, "JIMMMMMYYYYY, U SWORE UD NEVER CHEAT ON ME JIMMY!" and proceeded to eat his head. Or maybe she was trying to neck him. I don't know. We realised that this was the same classy bird than not five minutes earlier we'd actually seen taking a shit down the side of cavern walks. Yes, a shit. And now she was dragging her tits along the floor and cock blocking me. Time to make a swift exit.

The next day me and @susielovesvodka decided to sign up for internet dating, yano cos we never learn. The next morning rather freakishly I woke up to a message off him. I messaged him back saying, "Did I see you at the Mathew St festival?!" This was fate. This was destiny. We HAD to go on a date. Well destiny can fuck raaaaar off!
He turned up, he looked more like Jimmy Carr than Jimmy Carr does. Damn you vodka haze. His sense of humour was weird. He proceeded to tell the barman we were here on our first wedding anniversary as I stood there, awkwardly cringing and having some real 'fight or flight' instincts. But I decided to stick with it and he ordered me a small wine. It was awful. Just awful. The date not the wine. My cheeks ached from politely fake smiling. I checked my exits, there was no way out without being seen leggin it. I went the bar for my round, because despite spending the last half an hour telling me how rich he was and me being quite clearly out of his league he let me get the round in. 
As I ordered the wine the barman asked me, "Small or large?" 
"Better make it a large mate."
"So it's not your first wedding anniversary then?"
"Is it shite. It's the date from hell."
I got a bit more pissed and he got a bit more bearable but it was certainly not enough to get a second date. I couldn't watch 8 out of 10 cats for weeks without wretching.

So there ya go guys. If you're single, thank your lucky stars and just have a ball! And if you're in a relationship be happy you've found someone who's either as normal or as weird as you are! Happy Valentines day.



Sunday, 12 February 2012

Shut up and squat

I was considering not going out this weekend after I had the rather sobering thought that I hadn't had a weekend in since August when I lost 15 stone of dead weight AKA my ex. The thought was so sobering in fact that it immediately made me fancy a bevvy and so I decided to get raar on it with @susielovesvodka.

Before any drinking could be done though it was gym time. I hadn't bumped into hot gym instructor since last week so in preparation I decided to reduce the lesbian vibe of my gym gear by at least 80% and lash on some (waterproof) mascara just so I'd look semi decent. I knew he'd read the blog and found it hilarious. I bounced up to the gym, I was feeling good. He wasn't even there. Fuming. Ah well, such is the nature of hot gym instructor - he only turns up when I'm least prepared and looking most rough. Anyway I nailed the Zumba class and walked home wondering whether or not stealing a staff rota would be crossing a line. I went with yes. Yes it probably would be crossing a line.

So Susan had some shit sounding charity event on last night with her work which I was less than impressed at the prospect of. I also didn't think her taking me as her plus one would do her any favours either seeing as several of her colleagues have asked her if she's a lezza recently. But on her head be it so we went.

It was lame.

We rang our delta contact and got him to swing by STAT and pick us up. After half an hour.
"To the Revo!!" we cried. We'd promised we'd meet @sparkybuttsniff for a bevvy at the Mathew Street one after he missed out on the twitter night out last week cos he's a shit lad. And as we all know, shit lads are shit. But Mathew Street revo was also fucking lame. After half an hour of havin a drunk bunch of Wirral heads try to grind on me while dressed as pirate wenches (I hope they were on a stag do but they might well have just been bell ends) I was really pissed off. This night was goin downhill faster than the new series of TOWIE.

So back in ANOTHER taxi we decided to stick to what we knew and go see our mate @stehodge_12 in the posh Revo. Yano cos we're dead posh like.
There was a queue when we got there. I hate queing loads so I pulled the whole "hey mate we don't have to queue we know Ste Hodge." But unfortunately the bouncer didn't an he buzzed us off an pointed to the back of the queue. Shit. After about 3 minutes of freezing queing we were in, but he was nowhere to be seen so we decided to bust a few moves downstairs and pour an extra strong handbag vodka to try and liven the night up a bit cos up to now it was a poor effort. Moves like Jagger came on and as is the custom I broke out into a full Zumba routine while Susan looked on in shame and tried to pretend she wasn't with me, I don't even ATTEMPT to look cool on a night out! We also realised this was a prime location for pervin at lads arses. Yum.

Later on we found Ste working on the back bar upstairs so it was back on the shots and cheap rounds wahey! We got talkin to some lads who sounded a little bit on the wool side so I decided to do a bit of investigation into this. "Ay mate, tell me, do you have a pair of Toms?" His little wooly head looked all confused as he replied, "I have one pair of Toms yeh, why?" I made a wreching sound and walked away, it's the only thing to do in these situations. He then beckoned me back over to call me cheeky and try and get into me, I think he mistook my vomming noises for flirting. This was when I noticed that his mate was actually WEARING Toms and he'd been hiding them under the table the whole time the sly creature. We bailed from the vicinity immediately and went and hid in the toilets.

We were about to give up on the night and go home when we got talking to some other guys who we straight up established lived in town and had definite scouse origins. One of them even had guns out on show in what I like to call a Gun Display Cabinet and not a cleavage top in sight, it was looking promising. I noticed Mr GDC had more than a passing resemblance to our old bootcamp instructor Dave. Now Dave used to put us through our paces at Crosby beach once a week and for some reason was not a fan of wearing undies so quite often we'd see his meat and two veg bopping away having a little pants party while he's demonstrating a butt kick. This was the best part of bootcamp. Sidenote: We saw Dave out at New Year cos he also works the doors in town and told him about how we could see his lively trousersnake and Susan shouted HELICOPTERRRRRRRRR!!! in his face. He was buzzin.

an example of a Gun Display Cabinet. Guns out, cleavage AWAY! leave the cleavage to the girls fellas.

So of course Mr GDC because he looked like Dave, in our eyes BECAME Dave. Cut to 10 minutes later and I'm doing burpees on the floor of the Revo in my pink dress and high heels (because the bouncers in there are full on shoe nazis and won't let you take your shoes off) and we're forcing Mr GDC to do a tree stance. Which is basically standing in a squat position for as long as possible....really hurts after about a minute. Anyway after a bit Susan starts screaming in his face "NECK HER!!!!!" and pointing at me. "I'm trying!" he exclaimed looking a bit terrified. What had this poor guy let himself in for??

Then a strange thing happened, the more I refused to neck him the more keen he became - who knew that hard to get thing actually works? I was onto a winner. So ladies and gents I did NOT clubneck him. I gave him a hard time over giving him my number and chewed his ear off about the whole Chelsea fake dating profile story but eventually he got it. "So where dya wanna go for a date then?" Oh yes this kid was a professional, he was tying me down while he still had me. 
"Er....." I stalled for time trying to think of something ridiculous and difficult, "Blackpool fair."
"Yeh ok sounds good."
"Really?! Do you drive?"
"Well how are we getting there then?"
"We can be train wankers."
"Swerve that raaar off, just take me for a bevvy in the Ship & Mitre." Love a good cherry beer.

By this time it was past 4 and the place was clearing out. I said my goodbyes to Ste who thought we weren't speaking to him after we went to see The Chronicle on Orange Wednesday with him and his mate and they were noisy Odeon pests. But we love you Hodgey :)

Chicken and chips needed to get in my belly immediately so me and Susan paraded like showhorses down to the chippy. And I mean we walked down there doing that weird walk that showhorses do and making horse noises. Why? Cos it was piss ya pants funny thats why! Plus walking in heels always makes Susan feel like a showhorse apparently.

an example of our showhorse trot

Someone in the chippy made the grave mistake of asking for ketchup on his fries. Oh well this made us FUME. ITS RED SAUCE!!! If anyone reads this and they were a chippy in town last night and got a load of abuse about sauce. Yeh, that was us.

I inhaled the chicken in the cab so fast I got hiccups. If anyone has ever not seen me eat you will literally not believe how fast I eat. it's borderline disgusting. But my whole family is like that. I think it stems from the fact none of us are comfortable showing affection or socialising with each other so we just tried to get mealtimes at the table out the way as fast as possible. So I am both emotionally dead inside and a speedy eater. Yesssss.

Got in and passed out and unbeknown to me Susan had our Delta contact round for a cheeky neck sesh on the couch which I was only informed about this morning, AAAAAAYYYYYYY!! Ya dirty ticket Susan!

This morning I woke up on a mission. I was going to Zumba and Susan was coming with me whether she liked it or not. I've stumbled across the fact recently that while exercise on a hangover might be the last thing you want to do, once you've sweated for an hour the hangover legs it leaving you to get on with your day. Susan was NOT happy at all but she didn't have a choice. I text hot gym instructor to see if he'd let her bunk in. He'd seen the blog and STILL doesn't want to marry me and have my babies so I might as well get something out of it. He was on board.

So still bladdered we snuck round the back of the gym and my phone goes, it was him. "Oh hi hun u ok?" I said cheerily. "Where are you ya tit??" He loves me, deffo. So we found him and he let us in a side door. Nice one hot gym instructor. It was the funniest Zumba class I've ever been to in my life. Susan didn't know a single routine and was wearing leggings 3 sizes too big, everytime I clocked her confused face or her pulling her keks up I burst out laughing. There's one routine which suddenly gets really fast and complicated half way through and she just screamed "OH FUCK OFF!!!" and stormed off for a sulk before joining back in. Halfway though she looked at me and went, "Oh my god your earlobes are sweating, I thought you were blagging!". No no I work that hard and sweat that much.

On the way out, drenched as usual in my 40% proof sweat who do I run into as he's coming out of a room? Yeh hot gym instructor. I turned to Susan and said, "See?? EVERY TIME!! - its like he waits for me." It's ok though, I could see Susan and I knew she looked much more hungover than I did seeing as she'd been up all night necking so thank god for small mercies. There was only one thing for it, go to Mohammeds and clear him out of peanut Kit Kat Chunkies. Which we did and lived happily ever after. The End.



Tuesday, 7 February 2012

Chelsea Chelsea I Believe

Right everyone this is an off the cuff one cos I'm fumin! Apologies if it's not up to ususal standard.

There I was today coming out of work after a hard day of editing spreadsheets and dodging kippers in the canteen and I take my phone out to check if any eligible fitties had text me. They hadn't. But I did have 2 texts off unknown numbers...

This wasn't particularly unusual, I usually get a text every few days saying I've got precisely £3145.63 to claim back in PPI that I've never had or that I'm owed £5483.55 for the accident I had - What accident? The time I was 10 and pissed myself?? 

But as I went to swipe and delete I noticed one saying "Hi it's Scott." and the other said "Hi, send me a picture of you first." Jesus Christ. And as I replied to those saying "Sorry love you've got the wrong number." more came through. More and more and more. The jist I got from the few I read was that they were trying to get in touch with some bird off plentyoffish.com called Chelsea. That's right I'd been fucking well and truly pranked. 

an example

At first I found it hilarious, as each text came through I laughed and rolled my eyes "Good one." I thought, "Touche, knobhead, touche." Clearly I'd pissed some lad off. Or possibly unwittingly some lads bird. Gimps. Prime suspect Mr I Hate Hashtags.

So I asked one of the desperate losers what had gone one and he said that "Chelsea" had sent him a message saying she was deleting her profile text me on 07********* (MY number) instead because she'd just joined and had already had 400 messages and it was doing her head in. YES CHELSEA I KNOW HOW YOU FUCKING FEEL!! By this point I'd easily had over 100 texts. I was starting to not see the funny side anymore. Whoevers picture the pranker used she must've been fit. Probably my profile pic or something ;-)

I decided to chuck the phone in my bag and forget about it, I was on my way to double Zumba and I had hot gym instructors to dodge. My Zumba teacher was in a particularly evil mood tonight and even shouted at me in front of everyone because my squats weren't deep enough. Ay maybe she got pranked today too?

I came out to another 23 texts and a drained battery. So drained I didn't even want to risk checking twitter for fear I wouldn't be able to get all the way home and still play my music to drown out the other bus wankers. One of the losers had asked me why I'd deleted my profile so at least I knew the ordeal was coming to a conclusion.

I legged it through the front door with my iphone clutched in my hand like a dying child and rushed it to the nearest power source as it looked at me with its sad 1% eyes.

That's when I went to collect the post and found this:

Chelsea's only swung by my house in a delta while I'm out to rub it in hasn't she?? The cow! 



Sunday, 5 February 2012

Mr Hot Gym Instructor

Some of you might have seen me mention Mr Hot Gym Instructor. Hell, some of you are even doubting my loser credentials when it comes to fellas. Let me tell you a little story....

Over the recent festive period me and @susielovesvodka went on a little night out (no change there then) and ending up meeting some proper boss scouse lads in my local. They had the mozam out, we showed them how to do handbag vodka - it was a real meeting of the minds. You know the script. 

Anyway cut to 4am we're all bladdered in town and after a swift trip to BK we all ended back up at mine. This never happens. This just isn't how I roll. So naturally the place looked like a shithole. Nice one. So this hot lad, who I hadn't even so much as club necked just nods at the stairs and goes "We goin up there then?" and I suddenly just lost any sense of being a lady and went "Oh ok then."

So I took him upstairs to yano, "show him my coin collection" which took a good while. I like to be thorough when showing my coins off. "I don't normally show my coin collection to someone I've just met yano." "Yeh yeh me neither." he said. Nice cliched reassurances from the both of us there. After admiring his mahogany toned body, I found out he was a gym instructor who hits the beds....hard. I was a pasty mess in comparison. I hadn't even lashed a layer of St Moritz on from the Home & Bargain or anything. Fit.

Meanwhile downstairs @susielovesvodka was entertaining the troops. Trying to get into her pyjamas she ran into difficulty when she tried to unzip her dress but couldn't reach with her little T-Rex arms. So she politely asked one of the lads to help her only to be told "Get here you!" and ragged into the bathroom by her hair. Kinky. At the time my bathroom light was on the blink and it was like a strobe light disco in there, poor lad flicked the switch and screamed "Aggggghhhhhhh!!! I'm epileptic!" which killed the mood somewhat so Susie went back to the couch to chat his other mate up and Mr Epileptic stormed out. The rest of them got chucked in a delta at 7am. Delta Fellas.

Anyway, a couple of days later I'm minding my own business coming out of Zumba class at the gym looking like a sweaty mess. The gym I've been goin to 3-4 times a week since May. Who's standing there in reception? Yep. Hot gym instructor. "I haven't seen you here before." He sounded suspicious. I looked like a stalker. I babbled something shit about coming here all the time and scarpered. Fucking FML.

Now I'm not one of these attractive gym bunnies. I don't wear make up to the gym. In fact my signature gym look is sweaty, red faced, hair like Einstein and full on lesbian clobber. This was disastrous. 

So of course I bump into him all the time now, invariably looking like a lunatic and always saying or doing something stupid. Like for example the other week when I was getting ready for the gym in a rush and somehow I managed to spit mouthwash in my own eye. Don't ask me how, it's not something I think  I could repeat. Dashing past him into class I say, probably far too enthusiastically, "Hiya!!! I just spat mouthwash in my own eye! Bye!" Smooth Boobleyboo. Smooooooth. I even put a facebook status up about it, forgetting that he was on my facebook. I panicked and turned into a Cyberman - Delete delete delete!!!

He got on my bus the other week as I was getting off, I couldn't just get off the bus in a dignified manner like I do every other day. No. I dropped my drinks bottle and it goes rolling down the aisle leaving me to chase after it while Mr Hot Gym Instructor ponders whether or not I am actually stalking him. He's everywhere. It's getting to the point where I feel like if I'd just done a really smelly poo my house would get burgled and he'd be the burglar.

When I'm drunk and I feel like there hasn't been enough humiliation in the day so far I suddenly start thinking that ringing or texting him would be an AMAZING idea, so good an idea that I can't believe I didn't think of it sober. This Friday things took a whole new turn for the worse when I took to DM-ing his mate on twitter with some stupid indecent proposal for him to pass on. Why??? Why??? 

Today I come out of the gym, so sweaty that even my eyelashes and ears are perspiring, and probably my knees too and he stops me for a chat. "Oh did your mate tell you about the DM's yeah?" I thought I'll go in with a pre-emptive strike before he gets the chance to buzz off me. "No he didn't, why?" OH FUCK FUCK FUCK! Foot in mouth once again. I don't know what's wrong with me!

I'm not the type to get hung up on fellas, if anything I've got a reputation for being a bit cold - even though I'm a proper softy on the sly. But there is something about this lad that just turns me into a full time weapon, he's like a scab I can't stop picking.

There's a fairly good chance he's going to read all this too. I think I'm past the point of caring, what else can I possibly do to embarrass myself? Plus the whole idea of this blog is to be self deprecating and embrace my inner Bridget Jones with open arms. So there you have it. That's the story of Mr Hot Gym Instructor which unfortunately due to my Zumba addiction is the embarrassing tale which just keeps on giving.



Saturday, 4 February 2012

Shit lads are shit.

Last night was the night of the much talked about Twitter Family night out. The Twitter Family are a firm of decent people to have a laugh with on twitter (no shit sherlock) but yano we'll get on to how to follow them later.

The idea for this night out was hatched a few weeks ago and initially everyone was up for it like a bird with low self esteem looking for affection. But as the night drew ever closer they started dropping like flies, presumably because they knew my partying skills would both intimidate and embarrass them. The lads were the main culprits in this. Shit lads are shit. You know who you are *looks at you all accusingly*

So @staceylouise109 bowled up to ours where myself and @susielovesvodka were busy looking for the tv remote. We were ready to get the music channels on but the remote had other ideas and was determined to keep me locked in a Hollyoaks/E4 death grip. High and low was searched, even in handbags and the fridge (learnt from a past mistake). Eventually it was found under the couch along with a plectrum. I don't own or know anyone who owns a guitar, which leads me to believe @The53s have been sneaking into my house while I sleep and staring at me. Don't be shy lads, climb in for a cuddle.

The vodkas were in full flow (stacey obv got the slightly smaller glass cos she's a wool) and I retired to the bathroom as I was having major false eyelash issues and needed quiet to concentrate on applying them without the end result being me looking a bit special. Instead I just got my socks wet which made me fume even more. Fuck it. Lets get pissed. Grrr
Stacey's mate came to pick us up in our gleaming delta carriage and we rocked up to the Revo looking flllllyyy. I made a beeline for my favourite bartender @stehodge_12 and got the round in. Four diet cokes "because we're driving" #HandbagVodka and tequilas and sambuca all round. "£5.60 please" Yes that's the kind of round I like! Ste is both sound and looking real tanned as of late, been sunbathing on the arl lecky beach, little gorge.

Not gonna lie ladies, Revo was kind of skinny on the talent front. So we danced and had a laugh and abused any wools who dared approach. I fumed at one guy and told him to stop invading my personal space as he quite innocently walked past, but he did have a combover so I was well within my rights.

I looked at my glass, disaster "I'm dry!" so being the chief kitty minder as believe it or not I'm classed as the most responsible one, I made my way to the bar only to bump into Mr Combover. Great. Now what happened next was a bit unexpected, Mr Combover started singing in my face. Not along with the music or anything, just making conversation but belting it out opera style. I tell you what not only did he make me laugh, he stopped me on my express train mission for vodka and made me take a seat. Plus he was scouse-ish. "We need to do something about this hair." I said. "What hair would you like me to have?" "Short back and sides." Come on dude, scouse it uuupppp! Anyways, we got our club neck on and numbers were exchanged and I returned to my now very thirsty friends where all hell had broken loose. Susie had took the knock off some birds perfume and was going home. We had to soldier on without her.

At the doors of Mojo I was horrified to be asked for ID by the bouncer. "Are you high??? I'm 26! I've had botox! Look I can't even frown!" I got right up in his grill and attempted to frown DEAD HARD . "Oh alright love go in." Sound. I latched onto the nearest out of towner, "Ay mate, buy us a whiskey an lemo will ya?" "What do I get in return?" "A neck" So whiskeys were purchased, I gave him Staceys mate to neck and dispatched him with a blunt, "You've had your neck, now FUCK OFF" Brutal.

Next stop The Raz. Yeh you heard. Bopping away to Mmm'bop and the Five megamix I noticed Stacey gettin her clubneck on. "Any good?" She shook her head and looked disappointed. To be fair to the girl she gave him two more chances hoping that each neck would be better than the last, but she was fresh out of luck.
In the toilets we decided to pay homage to our favourite scouse indie band The 53's by writing their name across my cleavage in eyeliner and tweeting it to them. Staceys mate whom I'd met only hours earlier enjoyed getting a good grip of my boobs. See lads this is why girls go the toilets together. Mystery solved! I decided to leave the eyeliner on for the rest of the night as a walking billboard, only to be accused by several fellas of having a phone number written on my chest. Er mate, if birds give you 2 digit phone numbers you've been getting swerved for years soz.

The night ended in Passion (the club, not a clinch) which in my opinion kind of makes the Raz look upmarket. By this time everyone was too wasted to be of any interest to me plus I couldn't make any sense of anything through the vodka haze. I'd somehow mislaid £20 as well which made me fume. So we piled into a taxi and rolled home at 6am. Respectable.
See lads? You missed out. Shit lads are shit.
There was supposed top be a second installment this weekend with another night out planned for tonight but instead I've decided to lie on the couch with a melancholy expression and eat my own weight in Walkers thai sweet chilli sensations. Hangover scran.


@boobleyboo xxx

Twitter Family: @susielovesvodka @staceylouise109 @ladylambanana @kevbaz11 @smitjo89 @sparkybuttsniff @the53s @BootleTweets