Wearing The Same Pants For 2 Days

Yesterday started badly with a long drawn out phone drama with O2. The upshot of which had me spend 45 minutes in the Orange shop on the phone to the bank...too boring to write about so I'll skip forward. 

I dropped my new iPhone into the shop where 'the man unlocks phones with his secret powers' and then started to run home as I was already supposed to be on a train to Glasgow.

And, as always happens when I'm running late, I got embroiled in a chav fight and had to give a statement to the police. 

I finally get to Glasgow and the show was fab and a great laugh was had by all. Then Paul bought more wine.

This is where things went wrong. 2 pubs, a traffic cone, a club rejection, a gay bar, a fat lady fight and a heated debate filled taxi journey later, we end up at Pauls. It would be fair to say that none of us could see properly at this point, although we all agreed to 'one last glass of wine'.  At 5am we went to bed. I woke up 4 hours later, in bed with a woman*. 

Paul made coffee using the slowest boiling kettle I've ever seen and I had a Timeout for breakfast. We decided to go for lunch. I put my beer stained jeans back on, attempted to 'fluff' my hair up, wiped away the smudged mascara and brushed my teeth with my finger. I looked and smelled like someone had sicked me up.

I couldn't function. The simplest question stumped me. Ordering food was like a Japanese endurance test and I couldn't even pretend to be happy that I was alive. Paul and Donna spent most of the time laughing at me.

Walking through the streets of Glasgow to get the train station whilst wearing yesterdays pants, day old patchy makeup, sporting a hairdo like Worzel Gummidge and with beer stains on your jeans is not the classiest way to end a Friday. 

Hilarity came in the form of the really nippy tourettes suffering 10 year old loud kid who got locked in the train bog. I knew he was in there. I could hear him shouting for help. I ignored him and chuckled to myself. Does that make me evil? Meh, who gives a shit. I was a 36 year divorcee with the hangover from hell. That kid is lucky he still has all his teeth.

I finally got home and proceeded to drink the contents of my fridge but for some reason my gob was still as dry as Ghandis flip flop and tasted the way I'd imagine it would after licking a badgers arse.

Dinner was a packet of Wotsits and a Walnut Whip whilst crying into my pint of Irn Bru and promising myself that, come Monday, I'd sort my life out and cut the drink.

Until I go on holiday with Wil...

 * she's my pal, is married and we kept our pants on - sorry boys!


Thank god for this stuff is all I can say!