Bitches Beg It

Never run for the tube. It is pointless. The next one is 2 minutes away. 

This is something I say to pretty much everyone. I think all Londoners say this to each other. Do I listen to my own advice when running late??

Nope.

Living in Shadwell wasn’t exactly my dream. A tiny flat, with no lounge, but a scaffolding balcony that only others could dream of. It was also so central everywhere took 30 minutes to get to. This led to me being extremely lazy and waiting until the last minute to crawl out of my pit and get ready for work. I was late. A lot.

(Yes this is what I look like when I arise from my slumber)

Waking up, the time that you’re meant to be at work is never a great feeling, so I ran. I ran around putting clothes on (no deodorant that day), I ran down my flat stairs (too impatient for the lift that never worked – Shadwell shitness), I ran to the tube stop. I ran onto that fucking tube that was beeping.

Did I mention it was raining?

I ran, jumped, slipped fell – not that bad so far? Wait.

I fell, landed on my back. My bags contents scattered around me. My skirt exposing my granny pants (still not horrific??). Before I had the option to get up and out of the way of the closing doors, they closed, on my head.

Surrounded by businessmen, who were all polite and helped me up and collect all my items, I saw in their eyes the laughter that they were trying desperately to contain. The rest of my journey was spent standing facing the demon doors, not wanting anyone to see the redness that would not disappear from my face.

Did I receive sympathy when I was at work and retold my tragic story? Nope. Instead I was asked repeatedly to get the footage from the underground and show it to the office and see what you’ve been framed would offer me for TV gold.

Never run for the underground. Especially when it’s raining.

I told a girl friend on a drunken night (when trying to gain a few cheap laughs) the poo in the sea incident. I shall forever regret this.

I had been drinking heavily in Thailand the night before a day excursion. Buckets, if you have never been to Thailand these consist of the following : sugar + bull sperm + lethal paint stripper = death. I had not prepped my body for the sea, let alone the lack of toilet stops of this trip – 1 to be precise, a hole in the floor.

Placing my head between my legs on what can only be described as a shanti town version of a boat, to try and regain some form of dignity without voming was the beginning of the excursion. Once I was over the initial pain of hangover and seasickness I actually enjoyed my day.

The finale was swimming with glowing plankton (only glows in darkness).Whilst waiting for the sun to set, we travelled to Monkey Island; there was one monkey and he was shit, plus I was scared of rabies so stayed well clear. Whilst chilling I felt my belly do an unusual rumble, then it literally dropped in the pit of my stomach. I knew what was coming – the morning after poo, 10 hours after it was meant to arrive. Our current location a beach the was about 10 metres long by 2 metres wide – then  cliff face. There was nowhere to go. NOWHERE. The ocean. My only option.

I frantically started undressing – all whilst my friend started questioning me - “Nat why are you going swimming? It’s cold! It’s not plankton time yet. No one else is swimming. What are you doing?” shut the fuck up, shut the fuck up, SHUT THE FUCK UP.

I honestly ran into that sea and swam as far as I could, before it happened. I could only hope the shadows of the cliff covered my embarrassment. A few moments of adjustment and then it flowed out (HEAVE). I swear on my life this happened next… Someone thought my swimming was a good idea and decided to come out to talk to me. Because that’s what you do traveling. I wanted to die.

Then I heard the shriek.

The shame.

“Something just touched me”

“Something just touched me as well” – I found myself shrieking.

“Swim out of the deep end and into the shallow water”… “Quick”

Literally the best and quickest recovery I have ever accomplished. No one saw the poo. No one even thought I was pooing.  Poo freedom.

How did my whole friendship circle then hear about this? Whilst myself and boy travel buddy were retelling an alternative, far less traumatic story to our friends, drunken friend misheard what we were discussing and shouts, oh is this the story where you pooed in the sea. Yes as simple as that.

Don’t tell embarrassing stories to best friends unless you are prepared for exposure. FACT.

I am a drunk texter. 

One of those horrific people who seem to be unable to control their emotions and just wait until the next day to send that message.When my phone is in my hand and the send button all blue and appealing, just glows. It tells me to press it, the bitch.

You’re thinking, yeah we've all been there, we've all done it. It’s been embarrassing, but its fine, nothing that a day of cringing and apologising doesn’t make better. No. I take drunk texting to a different, very odd, level.

You think that text you sent your ex-boyfriend for a booty call or to "really give him the best blowie of his life" was horrific and you’re kicking yourself because A) he didn’t text back, or B) worst, he did and you were declined. PFFFT I was sending those messages years ago, amatuers.

My texting now is more far more creative. Please feel free to use any of the following:

“Your face looks like a chicken’s tit”

“You remind me of a cow playing tennis in a field of mushy peas”

“My elbow looks like your penis”

“Your penis is the size of a nipple”

“Your feet creep me out, like little aliens”

“I know you haven’t asked but I wont be having sex with you tonight because your face is non symmetrical and your nose looks like a penis.”

“bgsgigfds hifosdhoi hfds fdopsa” – (this is the fake text to show that you were clearly drunk, when they don’t respond)

What’s worst?  Realising that you’re meant to be seeing that person to pick up something you “accidentally” (definitely deliberately) left at their house. Needless to say they posted it.

The most shameful part about it...I always recall the amount of effort and thought that I’ve put into these messages, which just makes me want to vom in my mouth. 

The best cure I've found for drunk texting? Get so ridiculously drunk that when you go to the toilet to send this text, your body doesn't sync with your brain and you accidentally drop your phone down the loo. Then pee on it. Then flush the chain. When you finally realise what you've done, fish it out, hand dryer it and after all of this commotion...you've forgotten what the hell you were doing in the first place. 

Voila.




Side note...

Yes we all do. 

We really should start that new hobby, start cooking from scratch, writing those thank you notes from your birthday 2 months ago and calling granny for a chin wag.

Even more so, we should all be becoming a bootilicious babe like Beyonce. Running 10km a night in prep for that race we entered a month ago with one month left to train. Or that exercise DVD you begged auntie Jane to get us for Christmas. Or that workout regime we illegally downloaded because we want to die whilst doing star jumps. Oooooor my favourite, working out whether you’ve wet yourself doing burpees or you have just sweated that much (this has happened to me…3 times)

Yes we do have the same amount of hours in the day as Beyonce however… We work 9 hours of the day excluding our commute. Our jobs do not involve pampering and having a rack of doom and a budonk that really is devine. Our faces arrive at work the tube glow. A mix of stickiness that has accumulated from other bodies touching us, sometimes in inappropriate places, which, because im disgusting sometimes I get off on and a dew that lingers from general London dirt. Our day consists of staring at a computer screen, making idol chit chat and if your as lucky as me brewing about 10 cups of tea.

When we come home from work our head says do that run, get your 5 year plan out and ork out how your going to own your own company and make an elaborate meal (for one) with that kale, quinoa and saffron.

But my heart, oh it says something completely different to me. It just speaks to me I a more compelling way. The sofa wants you, it needs ypu. You slump down, crack open that family size bar that you purchased on the way home (because you’ve had a really hard day and you deserve it) put netflicks on and watch SAMCRO, because Charlie Hunnam really is the only man you need in your life.

You have as many hours in the day as Beyonce, buuuuuut… that doughnut is looking at you. That Sunday dinner with yorkies and extra gravy is shouting at you and that night out with the girls with the copious amounts of wine that turns into gin that turns into jager bombs is SCREAMING at you.

Yes I have as many hours in the day as Beyonce, but fuck it, I’d rather be drunk in love (especially with Charlie Hunnam and a family size bar of chocolate) than bootilicious any day, but who says we cant do both?