The Free Drink Black Widow

I was obviously feeling weak in the brain department last night.

So very weak, because somehow (and I’m still not quite sure how, I’m normally much more vigilant!) I was persuaded to go to our town’s local nightclub for a ‘jolly old boogie’…..Oh Dear!

The Art of Clubbing is not something I’ve spent much time or money on in the past.  Whether you blame it on my spectacular inability when it comes to dancing or the fact that there’s not many clubs in the near vicinity, the outcome is still the same:  Clubbing scares the heebie jeebies outa me!

Not in a  ’can’t walk round the corner for fear of some evil thing leaping out and making me wet my knickers’  kind of scary, just the  ’balls, someone’s suggesting a club…I always make a tit of myself’ sort!

As I’ve mentioned in the past, I only do ironic ‘Look at me I can churn out a passable cha-cha slide’ dancing.  All this jumping up and down with your hands in the air just doesn’t work for me. (And of course, 37% of the rest of the punters in there at any given time:  It’s sometimes very reassuring that I’m not alone in the lumbering two left feet stakes: Hurrah!)

I did try very hard at first;  I’m rather good at imitating people, yet I ended up choosing entirely the wrong candidates to be my club dance mentor:  When you’re head banging so hard that you whip a poor unsuspecting bloke in the face with a ridiculously large mane of hair, it’s probably time to calm down and go buy yourself another drink!

Bars in clubs are even worse than regular ones.  First off, everyone’s usually uncomfortably Sweaty Betty, and instead of motivating everyone to increase their circle of personal space, it does the opposite and you end up trying to dodge air-borne particles (that was the most pleasant way to put that, sorry!) whilst trying not to look too nauseated!

I’ve even had a very excitable gentleman bound up to me and do the last thing anyone would want them to do in that situation…A giant, all-encompassing hug.  Bleurrgh!

From his sweat-glazed cheek I managed to acquire enough moisture to fill a couple of (Admittedly disgusting in this instance and why would you ever go near them, yeuch!) Roman Baths.

This was apparently something I was subconsciously anticipating earlier that evening when I was packing my handbag and dithered over including the paddling pool and 50 litre fish tank….How stupid did I feel when I realised the biggest receptacle for collecting and holding liquid I had on me was a measly pint glass?  Woefully inadequate in this instance, I was drenched in seconds!

I had to try to salvage what little makeup was left on my face after my impromptu ‘shower’, so I sauntered off to the loo trying to look nonchalant and dry.  No easy feat when you’re dripping half of the English Channel onto the grubby carpet!

Once inside the loo, I looked around at my salubrious surroundings and sighed.  I understand that the constant use of a club toilet means that it cannot possibly stay pretty, but this really took the biscuit.  Grotty cubicles with broken locks and piles of general clubbing detritus was not what I needed right at that moment in my life.  Was it too much to ask for a real towel and a sweet-smelling bottle of liquid soap?  Or even a potted plant in the corner that hadn’t died of a vodka and coke overdose?

Luckily, I was sufficiently distracted by a high-pitched screechy pair of teenagers barging their way into the restroom area.  (I’ve never understood the American word for toilet:  How many of us go and plop down on a sofa in a loo?  Or settle down for a snooze?  Even just sit down on a comfy chair for a break and a biscuit?  Never does this happen in a loo!  Restrooms?  Odd!)

Anyway, these girls:  Man alive were they loud!  This is the first thing I registered when they clopped in to the loo in their heels (known as ’Stripper Shoes’ in my household.  Ugly massive heels with huge wedges, normally incorporating too many straps and a buckle or two….)

This choice of heel screams ‘I’m up for it, look at me shoes!’ and makes me feel sorry for the girl wearing them, as though all they needed in life was a good role model who would help them choose the right GCSE choices and steer them away from chav footwear, drugs and full body tattoos!)

Ah, I veer off the pertinent subject yet again….

So they are chatting away in their chav accents (Nails down a blackboard!  Sorry, being very snobsters today aren’t I?  Oh well…  I’ll get over it!) and Girl 1 says to Girl 2:

‘Ere, did ya see that bloke out there with the shaved ed?  Ee bought me a vodka so I fought I better give ‘im a dance!’

Girl 2 then replies:

‘Yeah?  Well I got a whole bottle of Lambrini off the tall guy wiv the friend who looked like ee’d fallen outa the ugly tree…I gave ‘em my number…shame I got it wrong!’

They then proceeded to carry on listing all the free drinks they’d managed to coerce silly naive men into buying them; These blokes obviously thought they’d stood a chance!  Shame they picked a couple of clueless freeloaders who’s obvious aim was to rack up the highest amount of free alcohol without anyone cottoning on during the evening!

If a man buys me a drink it’s because he’s been chatting to me for a good long while and we find we have something in common (not very often, which is a shame!)  If only our generation could manage to adhere to the classic saying ‘Don’t judge a large girl by her cover’  (That’s right isn’t it?  I’m vaguely remembering something about books, but my version sounds better!) There might even be less single people in the world which can only improve the world’s economy:

A couple get together:  One less house to heat, furnish with water and gas, and one more homeless person off the street!  Why there are any single people left is a mystery to me!

It makes total, environmental and fiscal sense to shack up with the next available bloke you meet:  Get on with it girls!

Ah, unfortunately that is all happening in an alternate reality!  In our world right now, the single people are loudly tutting at the alcoholic teenage wastrels who are nothing better than chavvy sirens luring unsuspecting men to their sides with false promises of a dance and their phone number.  Why then, do the idiotic blokes fall for this trick every time?

Who knows!  All I have gleaned from the whole experience is that I do still need to take money out with me on a night out, as I can’t rely on random men throwing drinks at me;  and that I still rejoice at not wearing shoes that resemble a spider who’s been caught in between the pages of a very heavy book.

Blokes, watch out for The Free Drink Black Widow….She’s all bark, no bite!

Love,

Fatty Blob Head

I Fell For Street Dance

An old proverb:  ‘Beware of the convenient shortcut.  For if not respected it will come and bite you in the derriere.  Literally’

I had an unfortunate moment last night when I was walking home with the friends.  It was rather late and rather dark, and we had partaken of a drop or two of wine.
In my somewhat inebriated state, I declared that we would be taking a shortcut to shave valuable minutes off our journey.  Quite what I needed those minutes for at 2am I’m not entirely sure.  Perhaps I felt the need to mow the lawn or check my emails…we will never know!
Barely two steps into the pitch black alley that constituted said shortcut and I had executed a most dramatic leap to the ground.  It was a beautiful, graceful fall that would have won me many awards had any judges happen to be watching. Unfortunately there were no judges, only a pair of teenagers walking by sniggering mercilessly at my misfortune.
I didn’t fare much better in the sympathy stakes with the friends either who regarded it merely as hilariously funny, rather than the Olympic Standard performance it truly was.
I ended up with a nasty cut on my knee, the same shaped hole in my jeans and a niggling feeling that it perhaps wasn’t quite as stylish as I’d first thought.  In the cold, sober light of day I’m wondering whether it wasn’t just a highly embarrassing moment; one I’m quite pleased occurred in the dark as it was hard to spot how red my cheeks were when I was pulled unceremoniously to my feet by the friends.

This in itself is something I try to avoid:  I am no sylph-like creature that can float upwards when hauled to an upright position.  No, it’s more akin to trying to pull a stubborn tree root out of the hard ground using only your fingertips:  Whoever’s doing the pulling thinks it’s going to be a piece of cake (Cake!  Mmmmm!) but halfway through realises that a firmer grip is needed and perhaps a course of ten sessions at the chiropractor…..
The whole incident reminded me of the time the friends persuaded me to attend street dancing classes above a pizza shop.  Now anyone who knows me will know that my dancing ability is basically nonexistent.

I rock when it comes to the YMCA or any other classic tune that has pre-approved dance routines; very able to dance my socks off in the required ironic manner.  However, when it comes to the sort of dancing you find in clubs and on music videos I am dire, and definitely in need of some talent.

These classes were incredibly hot, and I was always massively hungry due to the fact that the delicious smell of cooking pizza was wafting continuously through the floor from below.  Personally I think it’s quite cruel to advertise an activity as a weight loss aid as well as learning ‘funky’ routines then jamming the smell of cheesy, doughy goodness down our nostrils!

So imagine this:  There I was in my track suit at the back of the class watching the friends and little 10 year olds master the strutty, boppy routine perfectly, whilst repeatedly stepping the wrong way and looking like a crazed grizzly bear swiping at salmon.  All I wanted was for the ground to swallow me whole so I could end the torture of my uncoordinated efforts.  Come to think of it, the ground opening up would have dropped me through to the pizza….why did the building have to be of such sturdy design, dammit?!

I think I lasted three weeks in a row, and ended my hate affair with the dance of the streets in the same graceful style as last night:  I went to sit down to gasp my way through a much-needed water bottle, aimed completely off and slid down in between two hard metal chairs with an ‘ooof’!  How was this possible? I ask myself!  My behind is not exactly tiny, it does not normally miss targets with such disastrous and shameful results!

Everyone’s heads zipped round to witness the spectacle, and that time I had not two, but three of the annoyingly bouncy 10 year olds grab me and do the hauling.  Still the pizza floor didn’t take me!!

There’s some things in life that you must not lie to yourself about:

Hugh Grant would not fall madly in love with me at first sight.

The second chocolate eclair in the box does not need eating just so you don’t hurt its feelings that you chose it’s brother because it was bigger with more chocolate.

Most importantly, if you can’t dance, don’t keep on trying.  Dignity, woman, Dignity!  After all, Hugh Grant might be watching……..

Love,

Fatty Blob Head