Chapter 1
I make my bed don’t lie in it
As expressed I have an above average memory and to further illustrate this I shall draw upon another anecdote which I shall end with a sense of smug accomplishment. The resurgence of this vivid picture came about because I was reading my favourite blog author one Jigsaw Pig. For fear of losing my valued readers I shall not tell you where this blog resides.
Pig was questioning the validity of bed sharing. He argues that it’s a silly idea. He has numerous excellent reasons why this is the case which I shall succinctly list in a very perfunctory manner:
Couples have separate cars why does the same not apply to beds?
They give their children their own beds, and in some instances bedrooms, why not allow themselves the same privilege?
With central heating and warm blankets the argument that partners are necessary for heating is flawed.
Trying to convincingly argue that it’s more enjoyable to share a bed is irrational because if this was the case then hotels would charge more to share a bed. Conversely individuals in a solitary bed would be given a discount for having to suffer through the night in a bed of his/her own.
The love and affection argument is also flawed because no one can rationalise enjoying each other’s company whilst sleeping.
I admit that after a while the burden of bed sharing becomes apparent. Issues like snoring, blanket thievery and mattress boundaries become more prominent. And, let’s be honest the sight of seeing your partner having woken from slumber with the pillow case stuck to his/her cheek from the drool that ventured south just minutes previously is not exactly a romantic picture now is it? Then there’s the fidgeting, and the excuses you have to come up with because he/she wants to cuddle and you don’t. Also it’s best not to get me started on the annoyance of having to fight over the right side of the bed or who is going to make it in the morning.
Pig’s idea seemed preposterous to me in earlier life as I shall explain. I remember when I was very young I walked into Nana and Grandpa’s bedroom for the first time and there they were. Two wooden beds of the singular variety neatly made. Nana’s had a floral cushion and Grandpa’s had a brown chequered one. At the foot of each was a neatly folded “itchy” blanket, you know the type that is built for warmth rather than comfort? I was deeply shocked because as far as I was concerned Nana and Grandpa were in love and happy. I immediately went to the source of this burning question and approached Nana who said ‘because we like it’. The simplicity of answer did not fulfil my inquiring mind so I thought that being a woman with a well known intellect my mother would provide me with a more satisfactory response.
After a couple of minutes I left the warm comfort of mother’s lap and sulked away pondering this anomaly. Being a young child I soon found another question to solve and Nana and Grandpa’s sleeping arrangements simply became a curious acceptance.
Bed sharing had all but vanished from my mental landscape until I met a lovely couple who not only didn’t share a bed but they didn’t share a bedroom either. They made no bones about this fact and said that they both liked their space. Having never analysed my feelings towards bed sharing I found this to be an idea of the preposterous sort. Was not the point of having a partner to enjoy the ritualised getting into bed pleasure?
Having shared a bed with a boyfriend full time for about 2 years I can comfortably say that sighs of pleasure at getting into a nice crisp bed were rare. This is unusual because getting into bed is often the best part of my day. The soft pillows, the warm cuddle that your duvet gives you, the joy experienced at being horizontal after a tedious day at work, the singular idea that you’re about to embark on slumber and when you wake you’ll still be in this linen paradise. Sharing a bed with someone means that you are constantly disturbed by their breathing, snoring and God forbid teeth grinding. Every movement they make vibrates through the covers like an avalanche… hardly the stuff that pleasurable sighs are made of.
I think that the divorce rate would drop if couples slept in different beds. When partners are separated the idea is that their reunion is a time of intense passion. Imagine the delight of waking after a restful sleep to leave the privacy of your bedroom and find your partner ready for his/her day smiling at you? What a rare treat that would be. It’s no secret that not everyone is a morning person like me. I wake up and I’m rearing to go, immediately. I smile, and laugh and bash around the house merrily shouting about the day I’m likely to have. I understand that this is not the behaviour of 70% of the human population. I can imagine that the annoyance that I feel about miserable, slow, uncoordinated zombies with a penchant for pressing the snooze button is equally shared by them towards me. Personally I haven’t met many couples where both parties claim to be morning people or both claim to be terrible in the morning, so wanting to avoid one’s partner in the morning is not just a silly whim of mine. I dislike someone hijacking my sunny disposition with their snooze button tendencies so it would make perfect sense for me to go about my morning in my usual manner whilst my “other half” rests cosily in his own chambers.
Oh I can see the faces of all the couples who are reading this thinking, ‘shame poor Jaqui, she’s just a lonely singleton… besides, that’s not how it is with me and (insert partner’s name here).’
Chuckle chuckle
Friday, 23 July 2010
Thursday, 25 February 2010
Jaqui's Guide To Dating: Chapter 19
Chapter 19
The Walk of Shame
I’ve done the walk of shame, the bus of shame, the taxi of shame, the tube of shame, the train of shame, the drive of shame and the lift of shame. Wow my mum must be so proud! We’ve all done it though, haven’t we? To be fair, on some of these shame rides I was the wingman so it wasn’t actually my shame burden to carry down the pavement towards home.
One of my all time favourite shames was the taxi of shame. My wingman and I ended up at some random house after a great night of Tequila induced revelry. I woke up on a blowup mattress with what I believed to be the beginning stages of hypothermia and went through to find my wingman fretting about how to get home. What she didn’t know was that I have cunning tricks that I’ve picked up from various folk that I’ve met throughout my lifetime. We went through his post and found his address and a bit about his lifestyle at the same time; result. Job done, the taxi was ordered and before long we found ourselves on the journey towards home congratulating ourselves on our excellent stalking skills.
The Shame run is anything but pleasant however it is kind of amusing when it’s not you. You can recognise a shame victim immediately. You know the type of betty who’s stumbling along with a Coke, panda-eyed, high heels slung limply to her side, tight little number looking a bit creased, bed hair, eyes looking pavementward? I’ve had friends who’ve done it with the addition of red feather boas and fishnets, Christmas hats, 80’s lycra... but none took the cake quite like “Emma” after the baby oil incident. You may remember Emma from a previous entry, she had to ride a London bus looking like she’d had a date with a chip fryer.
There’s a lot of shame in my life, some self inflicted and some because I have really strange relations like Cocaine David for example. There’s also my late Aunty Emmy who nicked an entire bag of Malteasers from under my cousin’s nose, no one steals candy from a baby do they? Emily does. Anyway on one particularly surreal morning I did the walk of shame around my own house. Hold that thought, should I not be writing this as if I’m someone else…?
Okay… I have a friend, let’s call her “Sally”. Sally just so happened to live with the lovely Wayne and Fiona. You remember Wayne and Fiona don’t you? They’re that dynamic couple I used to go and visit, she likes to iron and starch? Anyway Sally moved into the house that they lived in and they didn’t really take to her terribly much. She wasn’t like most girls they’d met who like to darn socks on Saturday nights and attend church services on Sunday, thereafter preparing the evening’s roast with three veg and insipid gravy. She was feisty and loud and worse of all opinionated. Sally moved in and by the end of week one the cabin fever had set in, she had to go out. Sally rounded up the troops and all but Wayne and Fiona were keen on a little razzle dazzle.
Sally decided that after a week of being housebound she needed to break out the Laura Mercier “Seduction” and high heels. Her transformation was complete and as she trotted downstairs she was sure she looked like a million dollars because Wayne said, ‘not many people can pull off red lipstick without looking like a hooker’. Sally was pretty sure that he meant that she looked like a hooker which was good news because the last thing she wanted was Wayne’s approval on an outfit, unless she was going to a nuns and mums party.
Sally entered the bar and Seduction worked a charm as you may remember from the 'Red Lipstick' entry; however you’re missing a few of the finer details. It turns out that London taxi drivers are not charmed by Seduction and will take advantage of inebriated folk at every turn. The Tescos said taxi driver dropped Sally and her new found New Zealand pal was the wrong one so they had to walk about 3 miles to the house. No matter they were drunk and the adventure ahead lay in getting home in exceptionally high heels without falling over.
The mood in the house the next morning was odd to say the least and Sally couldn't quite put her finger on it. Sally awoke and promptly informed New Zealand that the path to success was out her door. She purposefully sported her finest Springbok jersey thinking it would rile him to the point of distraction. However he took this as an illustration of keenness for sport and therefore asked if she would escort him to the door whilst they discussed their mutual passion. Sally pondered the scenario whereby she would have to escort New Zealand (“What the Hell was his name again?”) out the door, walking past Wayne and Fiona and the rest of the homies. ‘Unlikely at best’, she thought and told New Zealand she was too hungover to move. New Zealand looked slightly put out but Sally has dated assholes so she’s developed a Brazil nut exterior and was unmoved by his look of ‘Que?’
Sally bade her annoying accented friend adieu and wrapped herself in her duvet. Had it not been for the hope of Coke downstairs she wouldn’t have exited her comfortable nest until Monday morning. However Coke was most necessary so she took the plunge towards the unknown. As her foot landed on the last step leading towards the kitchen she knew that what she was in for was sure to be a delicious treat. In her "hangoverus maximus" state she forgot that her homies NEVER EVER go out… EVER. It was a picture of domestic bliss, Wayne and Fiona were sitting discussing their bills and the rest of the homies were watching some poor quality tv. Sally knew she had makeup all over her face and she was feeling a little dizzy, her face reflected not only someone who had over imbibed but also there was a clear picture of shame. As Wayne met her eye she knew the game was up.
‘Did you have a nice evening?’ he enquired. Sally being new to Wayne’s world pipped ‘mmm yes thanks…’
‘We’re going to have to do something about your bed…’ he uttered in his most patronising tone…
‘Huh?’ thought Sally and then realised in a fuzz of vague drunken haze she may have remembered some squeaking. On further inspection she did the "jump test" and the penny dropped as to why Wayne’s eyes were dark ringed and he looked a little sleep deprived. As luck would have it Wayne and Fiona were in the room beneath Sally’s.
The other homies were obviously delighted with Sally’s performance especially as she was new to the world of the house. At first they liked to torment her and tell her how absolutely foot-stamping mad Wayne was as he likes his sleep and he's into the Old Testament rules. Sally felt like she was paying rent for a room that wasn’t even hers which made her even more ashamed. She mused about the likelihood of Wayne and Fiona shagging and wondered why it was okay for them but not for her? Feeling so down in the dumps and ashamed about a random napover was a new feeling and the shame simply increased as she started to doubt her lifestyle choices. After some realisation and a couple of ironing incidents she returned to her senses and realised that Wayne's missionary position is not only a position in the bedroom but a position on life.
I am happy to report that Sally is currently living in a flat with her wingman… and her bed no longer squeaks.
The Walk of Shame
I’ve done the walk of shame, the bus of shame, the taxi of shame, the tube of shame, the train of shame, the drive of shame and the lift of shame. Wow my mum must be so proud! We’ve all done it though, haven’t we? To be fair, on some of these shame rides I was the wingman so it wasn’t actually my shame burden to carry down the pavement towards home.
One of my all time favourite shames was the taxi of shame. My wingman and I ended up at some random house after a great night of Tequila induced revelry. I woke up on a blowup mattress with what I believed to be the beginning stages of hypothermia and went through to find my wingman fretting about how to get home. What she didn’t know was that I have cunning tricks that I’ve picked up from various folk that I’ve met throughout my lifetime. We went through his post and found his address and a bit about his lifestyle at the same time; result. Job done, the taxi was ordered and before long we found ourselves on the journey towards home congratulating ourselves on our excellent stalking skills.
The Shame run is anything but pleasant however it is kind of amusing when it’s not you. You can recognise a shame victim immediately. You know the type of betty who’s stumbling along with a Coke, panda-eyed, high heels slung limply to her side, tight little number looking a bit creased, bed hair, eyes looking pavementward? I’ve had friends who’ve done it with the addition of red feather boas and fishnets, Christmas hats, 80’s lycra... but none took the cake quite like “Emma” after the baby oil incident. You may remember Emma from a previous entry, she had to ride a London bus looking like she’d had a date with a chip fryer.
There’s a lot of shame in my life, some self inflicted and some because I have really strange relations like Cocaine David for example. There’s also my late Aunty Emmy who nicked an entire bag of Malteasers from under my cousin’s nose, no one steals candy from a baby do they? Emily does. Anyway on one particularly surreal morning I did the walk of shame around my own house. Hold that thought, should I not be writing this as if I’m someone else…?
Okay… I have a friend, let’s call her “Sally”. Sally just so happened to live with the lovely Wayne and Fiona. You remember Wayne and Fiona don’t you? They’re that dynamic couple I used to go and visit, she likes to iron and starch? Anyway Sally moved into the house that they lived in and they didn’t really take to her terribly much. She wasn’t like most girls they’d met who like to darn socks on Saturday nights and attend church services on Sunday, thereafter preparing the evening’s roast with three veg and insipid gravy. She was feisty and loud and worse of all opinionated. Sally moved in and by the end of week one the cabin fever had set in, she had to go out. Sally rounded up the troops and all but Wayne and Fiona were keen on a little razzle dazzle.
Sally decided that after a week of being housebound she needed to break out the Laura Mercier “Seduction” and high heels. Her transformation was complete and as she trotted downstairs she was sure she looked like a million dollars because Wayne said, ‘not many people can pull off red lipstick without looking like a hooker’. Sally was pretty sure that he meant that she looked like a hooker which was good news because the last thing she wanted was Wayne’s approval on an outfit, unless she was going to a nuns and mums party.
Sally entered the bar and Seduction worked a charm as you may remember from the 'Red Lipstick' entry; however you’re missing a few of the finer details. It turns out that London taxi drivers are not charmed by Seduction and will take advantage of inebriated folk at every turn. The Tescos said taxi driver dropped Sally and her new found New Zealand pal was the wrong one so they had to walk about 3 miles to the house. No matter they were drunk and the adventure ahead lay in getting home in exceptionally high heels without falling over.
The mood in the house the next morning was odd to say the least and Sally couldn't quite put her finger on it. Sally awoke and promptly informed New Zealand that the path to success was out her door. She purposefully sported her finest Springbok jersey thinking it would rile him to the point of distraction. However he took this as an illustration of keenness for sport and therefore asked if she would escort him to the door whilst they discussed their mutual passion. Sally pondered the scenario whereby she would have to escort New Zealand (“What the Hell was his name again?”) out the door, walking past Wayne and Fiona and the rest of the homies. ‘Unlikely at best’, she thought and told New Zealand she was too hungover to move. New Zealand looked slightly put out but Sally has dated assholes so she’s developed a Brazil nut exterior and was unmoved by his look of ‘Que?’
Sally bade her annoying accented friend adieu and wrapped herself in her duvet. Had it not been for the hope of Coke downstairs she wouldn’t have exited her comfortable nest until Monday morning. However Coke was most necessary so she took the plunge towards the unknown. As her foot landed on the last step leading towards the kitchen she knew that what she was in for was sure to be a delicious treat. In her "hangoverus maximus" state she forgot that her homies NEVER EVER go out… EVER. It was a picture of domestic bliss, Wayne and Fiona were sitting discussing their bills and the rest of the homies were watching some poor quality tv. Sally knew she had makeup all over her face and she was feeling a little dizzy, her face reflected not only someone who had over imbibed but also there was a clear picture of shame. As Wayne met her eye she knew the game was up.
‘Did you have a nice evening?’ he enquired. Sally being new to Wayne’s world pipped ‘mmm yes thanks…’
‘We’re going to have to do something about your bed…’ he uttered in his most patronising tone…
‘Huh?’ thought Sally and then realised in a fuzz of vague drunken haze she may have remembered some squeaking. On further inspection she did the "jump test" and the penny dropped as to why Wayne’s eyes were dark ringed and he looked a little sleep deprived. As luck would have it Wayne and Fiona were in the room beneath Sally’s.
The other homies were obviously delighted with Sally’s performance especially as she was new to the world of the house. At first they liked to torment her and tell her how absolutely foot-stamping mad Wayne was as he likes his sleep and he's into the Old Testament rules. Sally felt like she was paying rent for a room that wasn’t even hers which made her even more ashamed. She mused about the likelihood of Wayne and Fiona shagging and wondered why it was okay for them but not for her? Feeling so down in the dumps and ashamed about a random napover was a new feeling and the shame simply increased as she started to doubt her lifestyle choices. After some realisation and a couple of ironing incidents she returned to her senses and realised that Wayne's missionary position is not only a position in the bedroom but a position on life.
I am happy to report that Sally is currently living in a flat with her wingman… and her bed no longer squeaks.
Thursday, 15 October 2009
The Bracelet of Shame
It's taken me ages to be able to face writing about the “Bracelet of Shame”. This piece has been sitting in the depths of my brain wailing to get out and ironically it's the shame that's made me procrastinate for so long.
Not so long ago it was my mother's 50th Birthday. In my world this is a big deal because I love my mum and I love buying gifts; I especially love buying gifts for my mum. I've got this thing for Audrey Hepburn, I think it's the fact that she can't sing for shit but looks killer in a little black number. Breakfast at Tiffany's made me drool over Tiffany's jewellery without having even gone into the store. I made up my mind that only one gift would suffice for this occasion and that was something from Tiffany's. I'm actually blushing as I write this because it gets so bad.
I'm into online shopping. When I say I'm "into" online shopping that's actually one mammoth understatement. If my life was made into a movie it would be called "Breakfast at Amazon.com". Seriously, I cannot go one day without adding stuff to my shopping trolley; books I've always wanted to own but haven't bothered to buy, dvd box sets, kitchen gadgets, shoes etc. The best thing is you simply pick what you want, click the mouse a couple of times and hey presto you've just maxed out your credit card. It's genius. The other benefit of Amazon is that you wait for your shit to arrive and when it does it's all boxed up nicely and it's a massive surprise. I like surprises they float my boat. I especially love surprises when they arrive first thing on a Monday morning.
It is this faith in online shopping that is my nemesis. I automatically assume that everything that you purchase in cyberspace must be fabulous. So it was that I went to tiffanystore.com and did the unthinkable. I purchased this beautiful bracelet (so the picture led me to believe) that was marked down from £159 to £49. 'Too good to be true' I hear you muse. Well you'd be right. In my defence there was some lame story about no one buying jewellery in the recession hence major price cuts aka "sales". Cringe. So £59 spent, including postage and packaging, and as I click the mouse for the final time my heart drops and I feel like I've just contributed to the illegal arms race.
Unlike my little Amazon gems this parcel arrived with a clap of doom. I guess the feeling I got was similar to the one I get when I receive that letter from the NHS telling me that I'm due for a pap smear. Joy! When the parcel was handed over I immediately put it in my bottom drawer. I caught a couple of Chinese characters as it was being handed over by the post room guy, special Chinese characters typed by little Chinese slave labourers. Fuck.
Initially the contents of the package didn't look too bad . Good turquoise box, nice turquoise carrier bag, fantastic turquoise mock-velvet jewellery pouch, lovely nice shiny-as-shit bracelet proudly shouting 'hey cheap skate I'm fake!' Double Fuck.
It took me a day or so to open the bottom drawer of my desk. I even converted the bastard shiny bracelet from pounds back into Commercial ZARs to add value to my status as the world's biggest muppet. There was only one thing for it. Tequila and shit piles of it.
Tequila led to drunken debauchery, which led to having sexy times with a bloke with a girlfriend. Monday morning I wanted to bowl for Columbine in my office. Not only did I have to face the piece of shit bracelet in my desk drawer. Not only had I shagged a guy with a betty. BUT I also had nothing to give my mum for her birthday.
I opened my desk, undid the cheap clasp on the bracelet and emancipated my bad tiffanystore.com purchase. Throughout the day as the cheap silver clanked on my desk, as I typed out boring client emails, I actually smiled. Each clank of silver was greeted with a liberated buzz as I realised just how shameful I should feel. The shame of buying cheap shit on the Internet, the shame of being a home wrecker and the shame thinking I was back to square one on the gift front.
Since then the Bracelet of Shame has practically been soldered to my wrist. This bodes well for the longevity of my fake tiffanystore.com purchase, especially because if I’m not wearing it one of my mates is. The thing is wearing the bracelet is like “sitting in the corner and thinking about what you’ve done”. Once you’re removed from the corner you go back to being a pain in the ass and smacking your sister around.
Not so long ago it was my mother's 50th Birthday. In my world this is a big deal because I love my mum and I love buying gifts; I especially love buying gifts for my mum. I've got this thing for Audrey Hepburn, I think it's the fact that she can't sing for shit but looks killer in a little black number. Breakfast at Tiffany's made me drool over Tiffany's jewellery without having even gone into the store. I made up my mind that only one gift would suffice for this occasion and that was something from Tiffany's. I'm actually blushing as I write this because it gets so bad.
I'm into online shopping. When I say I'm "into" online shopping that's actually one mammoth understatement. If my life was made into a movie it would be called "Breakfast at Amazon.com". Seriously, I cannot go one day without adding stuff to my shopping trolley; books I've always wanted to own but haven't bothered to buy, dvd box sets, kitchen gadgets, shoes etc. The best thing is you simply pick what you want, click the mouse a couple of times and hey presto you've just maxed out your credit card. It's genius. The other benefit of Amazon is that you wait for your shit to arrive and when it does it's all boxed up nicely and it's a massive surprise. I like surprises they float my boat. I especially love surprises when they arrive first thing on a Monday morning.
It is this faith in online shopping that is my nemesis. I automatically assume that everything that you purchase in cyberspace must be fabulous. So it was that I went to tiffanystore.com and did the unthinkable. I purchased this beautiful bracelet (so the picture led me to believe) that was marked down from £159 to £49. 'Too good to be true' I hear you muse. Well you'd be right. In my defence there was some lame story about no one buying jewellery in the recession hence major price cuts aka "sales". Cringe. So £59 spent, including postage and packaging, and as I click the mouse for the final time my heart drops and I feel like I've just contributed to the illegal arms race.
Unlike my little Amazon gems this parcel arrived with a clap of doom. I guess the feeling I got was similar to the one I get when I receive that letter from the NHS telling me that I'm due for a pap smear. Joy! When the parcel was handed over I immediately put it in my bottom drawer. I caught a couple of Chinese characters as it was being handed over by the post room guy, special Chinese characters typed by little Chinese slave labourers. Fuck.
Initially the contents of the package didn't look too bad . Good turquoise box, nice turquoise carrier bag, fantastic turquoise mock-velvet jewellery pouch, lovely nice shiny-as-shit bracelet proudly shouting 'hey cheap skate I'm fake!' Double Fuck.
It took me a day or so to open the bottom drawer of my desk. I even converted the bastard shiny bracelet from pounds back into Commercial ZARs to add value to my status as the world's biggest muppet. There was only one thing for it. Tequila and shit piles of it.
Tequila led to drunken debauchery, which led to having sexy times with a bloke with a girlfriend. Monday morning I wanted to bowl for Columbine in my office. Not only did I have to face the piece of shit bracelet in my desk drawer. Not only had I shagged a guy with a betty. BUT I also had nothing to give my mum for her birthday.
I opened my desk, undid the cheap clasp on the bracelet and emancipated my bad tiffanystore.com purchase. Throughout the day as the cheap silver clanked on my desk, as I typed out boring client emails, I actually smiled. Each clank of silver was greeted with a liberated buzz as I realised just how shameful I should feel. The shame of buying cheap shit on the Internet, the shame of being a home wrecker and the shame thinking I was back to square one on the gift front.
Since then the Bracelet of Shame has practically been soldered to my wrist. This bodes well for the longevity of my fake tiffanystore.com purchase, especially because if I’m not wearing it one of my mates is. The thing is wearing the bracelet is like “sitting in the corner and thinking about what you’ve done”. Once you’re removed from the corner you go back to being a pain in the ass and smacking your sister around.
Wednesday, 23 September 2009
Monday, 21 September 2009
Jaqui's Guide to Dating: Chapter 7
Chapter 7:
Having Eaten The Apple
I don't know if you've ever woken up and wanted to chew your arm off. But you can't because you're so hungover that if you even gnash your teeth together you get that tense feeling in your jaw and you feel vomitorious may erupt at any second. It takes you a brief moment to realise that you are in fact naked and then the flashbacks come and smack you over the head; a montage of flashbacks without the inspirational theme tune.
There are options at this point and they vary depending on whether or not you've had an away game or a friendly home game. Before we get to options I suppose I better clarify how you got yourself into this naked, shameful, chew-your-appendages-off position.
I suppose, like every good scenario, it started in the bar. You were merrily quaffing a decent bottle of fine white with some mates and he came over and joined you. You know he's a good bloke because you've had elevator chats, smoke chats, train chats, "etc." chats with him and every time he's given you a diatribe involving "love" and "girlfriend". He refers to her as "my girlfriend" which reminds you of that scene in the English Patient where Ralph Fiennes abhors ownership; well at least I am reminded of that. You know him reasonably well and therefore if he suddenly said 'Wendy and I are going to share a Chinese and watch Marley and Me' you would know he was referring to his girlfriend. On the contrary it's always 'my girlfriend and I are going to cuddle on the couch and share a slab of chocolate'. Of course she's the type of girl who eats chocolate and doesn't care because she's naturally skinny and beautiful. You hate her already. Anyway said bloke, joins you and you're not remotely phased because he's name-dropped "my girlfriend" at least three times in two minutes and you're quite sure he's about as interested in you as a personal trainer is in a fat betty.
You're quaffing your wine and he's guzzling his beer. Your mates have dropped off throughout the course of the evening and the next thing you know you're alone and completely ass-about-face shooting tequila and solving the mysteries of the universe with this bloke. Any mention of "my girlfriend" ceased about two hours ago. You forget quite how it happened, one minute you were downing tequila, the next you were slumped in a toilet cubicle, the next you were on a bus and then somehow he gained access to your house. No matter, you open a bottle of wine and continue solving universal conundrums.
That's where it starts to get hazy in the inebriated montage of shame. At some point there was snogging and then the next thing you know you're awake naked in bed. (For the record if you ended up at his place it's little matter at this point, the only thing that changes is the exit strategy.)
You're desperately trying to piece together where it all went wrong and simultaneously trying to stay as still and silent as possible. It's better that he's sleeping although the sight of him makes you want to rip out your eyes with a blunt piece of plastic. Surely you didn't really? I'm afraid to tell you that you did. After agonising minutes, hours, seconds you cannot bare it anymore and you begin strategising operation bugger off/fuck off out my house.
Whether you're leaving or he's leaving it's key for you not to have to display your naked suit. It is thus essential to robe-up before his lids open, this way you have the upper hand. No one wants to be the only naked body in the bed. Secondly you want to make sure that if you're leaving you have everything with you. My mate once left her "lucky bra" at a random's house and let's just say her napovers became very scarce thereafter; also you don't want an excuse to have to see this bloke ever again.
Once you've robed up and have all your shit together the ideal option is to flee. However if he's awake you may just want to do the awkward "visit sick granny in hospital" speech. Once you're out of his house you can sit back and enjoy your journey on the bus of shame. On the flip side if he's in your bed then the power you hold is immense. If you're in full attire and he's still napping you can either bring him the subtle "fuck off out my house coffee" or you can merely shout 'oi it's time to go!' No matter he'll have to chug down hot coffee or simply put his clothes on whilst you glare at him. It's good to put the shame on the other foot if and when you can. To avoid maximum self shame make him feel like utter crap, after all he's the one with the girlfriend.
Things become more complicated if he's robed up before you. You do not want to be on the receiving end of "fuck-off coffee" or have him watch you whilst you play "hunt the knickers" (it's always the bloody knickers that escape you). If you do find yourself in this position it's near impossible to retain any sense of dignity and the bus of shame home will be almost unbearable.
You think to youself, 'so, I've eaten the apple and it wasn't as tasty as I'd hoped' and what's more it's come with an extra serving of guilt. You know it's guilt sex because you wake up and you couldn't be further away from him if you tried. The normal post napover cuddle is about as likely as breakfast in bed with a single red rose. You''ll be lucky if you get an awkward conversation out of the guy let alone any kind of bodily contact. Pillow talk involves the simple phrase "I'm dying..." or "Jesus I'm never drinking again".
When you get home you take a long look in the mirror and vow never to drink again and you wonder how he's feeling. What you don't realise is that it's so simple to be male, he's simply gone out and bought a nice big bunch of sorry flowers for his girlfriend and he's cunningly disguised them as a nice gesture.
Having Eaten The Apple
I don't know if you've ever woken up and wanted to chew your arm off. But you can't because you're so hungover that if you even gnash your teeth together you get that tense feeling in your jaw and you feel vomitorious may erupt at any second. It takes you a brief moment to realise that you are in fact naked and then the flashbacks come and smack you over the head; a montage of flashbacks without the inspirational theme tune.
There are options at this point and they vary depending on whether or not you've had an away game or a friendly home game. Before we get to options I suppose I better clarify how you got yourself into this naked, shameful, chew-your-appendages-off position.
I suppose, like every good scenario, it started in the bar. You were merrily quaffing a decent bottle of fine white with some mates and he came over and joined you. You know he's a good bloke because you've had elevator chats, smoke chats, train chats, "etc." chats with him and every time he's given you a diatribe involving "love" and "girlfriend". He refers to her as "my girlfriend" which reminds you of that scene in the English Patient where Ralph Fiennes abhors ownership; well at least I am reminded of that. You know him reasonably well and therefore if he suddenly said 'Wendy and I are going to share a Chinese and watch Marley and Me' you would know he was referring to his girlfriend. On the contrary it's always 'my girlfriend and I are going to cuddle on the couch and share a slab of chocolate'. Of course she's the type of girl who eats chocolate and doesn't care because she's naturally skinny and beautiful. You hate her already. Anyway said bloke, joins you and you're not remotely phased because he's name-dropped "my girlfriend" at least three times in two minutes and you're quite sure he's about as interested in you as a personal trainer is in a fat betty.
You're quaffing your wine and he's guzzling his beer. Your mates have dropped off throughout the course of the evening and the next thing you know you're alone and completely ass-about-face shooting tequila and solving the mysteries of the universe with this bloke. Any mention of "my girlfriend" ceased about two hours ago. You forget quite how it happened, one minute you were downing tequila, the next you were slumped in a toilet cubicle, the next you were on a bus and then somehow he gained access to your house. No matter, you open a bottle of wine and continue solving universal conundrums.
That's where it starts to get hazy in the inebriated montage of shame. At some point there was snogging and then the next thing you know you're awake naked in bed. (For the record if you ended up at his place it's little matter at this point, the only thing that changes is the exit strategy.)
You're desperately trying to piece together where it all went wrong and simultaneously trying to stay as still and silent as possible. It's better that he's sleeping although the sight of him makes you want to rip out your eyes with a blunt piece of plastic. Surely you didn't really? I'm afraid to tell you that you did. After agonising minutes, hours, seconds you cannot bare it anymore and you begin strategising operation bugger off/fuck off out my house.
Whether you're leaving or he's leaving it's key for you not to have to display your naked suit. It is thus essential to robe-up before his lids open, this way you have the upper hand. No one wants to be the only naked body in the bed. Secondly you want to make sure that if you're leaving you have everything with you. My mate once left her "lucky bra" at a random's house and let's just say her napovers became very scarce thereafter; also you don't want an excuse to have to see this bloke ever again.
Once you've robed up and have all your shit together the ideal option is to flee. However if he's awake you may just want to do the awkward "visit sick granny in hospital" speech. Once you're out of his house you can sit back and enjoy your journey on the bus of shame. On the flip side if he's in your bed then the power you hold is immense. If you're in full attire and he's still napping you can either bring him the subtle "fuck off out my house coffee" or you can merely shout 'oi it's time to go!' No matter he'll have to chug down hot coffee or simply put his clothes on whilst you glare at him. It's good to put the shame on the other foot if and when you can. To avoid maximum self shame make him feel like utter crap, after all he's the one with the girlfriend.
Things become more complicated if he's robed up before you. You do not want to be on the receiving end of "fuck-off coffee" or have him watch you whilst you play "hunt the knickers" (it's always the bloody knickers that escape you). If you do find yourself in this position it's near impossible to retain any sense of dignity and the bus of shame home will be almost unbearable.
You think to youself, 'so, I've eaten the apple and it wasn't as tasty as I'd hoped' and what's more it's come with an extra serving of guilt. You know it's guilt sex because you wake up and you couldn't be further away from him if you tried. The normal post napover cuddle is about as likely as breakfast in bed with a single red rose. You''ll be lucky if you get an awkward conversation out of the guy let alone any kind of bodily contact. Pillow talk involves the simple phrase "I'm dying..." or "Jesus I'm never drinking again".
When you get home you take a long look in the mirror and vow never to drink again and you wonder how he's feeling. What you don't realise is that it's so simple to be male, he's simply gone out and bought a nice big bunch of sorry flowers for his girlfriend and he's cunningly disguised them as a nice gesture.
Monday, 17 August 2009
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