How to have a great NYE: PART TWO

Every New Year’s Day, when I invariably wake up with a mouth that could rival the Sahara Desert in the anti-moist Olympics, stinking of a cocktail of cheap booze I think to myself ‘Next year, next year it will be different.’

The elusive ‘Next Year’ promises a New year’s day morning in which I awake fresh as a daisy after a civilized dinner party, spring out of bed in my pristine room, throw on my running leggings and dash off for a jog along the cobbled streets of Notting Hill where I live with my charming boyfriend. He’s French by the way and looks like that bloke out of Love Actually that stupid Laura Linney did not sleep with because she is a FOOL.

Let me tell you – I love my brother. But he would have to be running through my house whilst on fire to prevent me sleeping with Carl. A phone call? You can forget it.

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Shut UP Carl – it’s just a tiny bit of fire. He’s fine. He likes it.

Anyway I’m getting distracted.

For the past three years in a row I have woken up to the sight of every single item of my clothing forming a makeshift carpet across the floor of my charming (tiny) room.  This as a result of ‘deciding what to wear’ the night before. A process that usually goes thus:

Me: I HAVE NO CLOTHES

Nice sensible flatmate: Yes you do babe you have loads of clothes

Me: I HATE EVERYTHING I OWN

NSF: you look nice in *insert outfit here*

Me: I look DISGUSTING in that you liar. I’m so obese. Is this why I’m unmarried at the age of 26?

NSF: Um 26 is very young to be married and you’re not married because you keep going out with actors/artists/idiots with wanky beards. Wear that thing you put on first. That looked nice

Me: Ok.

Repeat 10 times or so until NSF pours some wine directly down my throat to shut me up.

This year was no different – except for one detail. Whilst I woke up with desert mouth, smelling bad and with a vague sense of anxiety as per every hangover ever, I also woke up with something else. The number of a delicious man clutched in my sweaty paws. A man who actually wanted to see me again. The very next day even (God praise the long weekend!).

For those of you reading this thinking ‘that’s pretty standard isn’t it? When I meet a guy they usually do want to see me again’, well firstly you should probably know that a large proportion of this blog won’t resonate with you and secondly please teach me your ways.

From my experience, to meet a man (in real life no less) who is actually attractive and makes you do a proper laugh (not a polite, ‘let’s ease this social awkwardness along shall we’ laugh) is extremely rare. Which only makes what follows all the more horrendous.

Recounting this day is problematic for two reasons.

1) It actually makes me wince every time I think about it on account of how horribly wrong everything went

2) I physically don’t remember a lot of the latter of it. Which probably gives you a hint about where the downhill turn may have occurred.

So I’ll do it via timetable. Enjoy reveling in my misery

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11.00: Get up and get in shower. Sing in shower as so excited about prospect of meeting up with Beardy McSexy.

12.00: Have not heard from Beardy McSexy. Stare at his ‘last online’ status on whatsapp for 10 minutes.

12.10: Do hair and select outfit whilst pretending to self that am merely blow-drying, straightening and curling my hair for myself. Say ‘Beyonce’ and ‘self respect’ to self over and over.

1.00: Head over to see friends K1 and K2 in Clapham to pick up keys and jacket that I left At K2’s on NYE. Have not yet heard from BMS (Beardy McSexy) but I remain hopeful. (i.e. spend entirety of brunch staring angrily at phone and ignoring friends)

1.30: Phone is confiscated by friends so tell them tales of BMS instead. Cue much squealing and ordering of bloody Mary’s in celebration which might give you an indication of how little action we (the female version of the inbetweeners) get.

 

2.00: After a bloody mary the size of my head we leave brunch to head to another pub. We order a bottle of pale rose. We have decided that I should stick it out in the pub until I hear from BMS as no point heading back to darkest East London to trot back south later.

NB: PINK WINE IS A VERY BAD IDEA ALWAYS. IT TASTES DELICIOUS LIKE JUICE AND IT MAKES YOU MAD, BAD AND SLUTTY.

2.30: Somewhere between glass number ten million and ten million and one, K1 leans towards me with the severity of a high court judge and asks sombrely: ‘If you do end up seeing BMS….What is your underwear situation like?’

It is at this point I realise I am wearing duck egg blue, over the belly button, granny pants. Panic ensues.

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3.00: K2 steps in and silences the rabble with a magnanimous gesture of kindness that could only come from a girl with whom I once made a detailed ‘When and where to poo’ plan at Glastonbury. She stands nobly before K1 and I like a modern day Mother Teresa. ‘If he texts you…I shall lend you some pretty pants’ she intones. Day saved. Celebratory wine ordered.

4:00: Text from BMS. He wants to see me and take me for dinner. He is booking a table. ‘This means he’s a grown up human man’ slurs K1 as K2 nods sagely. ‘Lesss go home and change your pants’.

5.00: We are somehow in another pub and I am so nervous at the prospect of dinner with BMS that I am downing the pink wine like it’s the fountain of eternal youth. K2 is telling anyone who will listen that she has leant me some pants. In our drunken state we think this is a lovely example of our everlasting sisterhood. To all those around us it is merely an indicator that I intend to let BMS see my pants and, as a more sober friend pointed out to K2, ‘It’s not really that magnanimous a gesture if you go around telling everyone about it and saying ‘aren’t I kind and great’’.

6.00: It’s all getting a bit blurry at this point and I am looking less and less attractive every time I go to examine myself in the mirror. I am suddenly aware that I need to leave to see BMS in ten minutes and I am drunk as a skunk. I have a capri sun to try and remedy matters. It is the equivalent of spitting on a forest fire.

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7.00: Am desperate for wee. Has anyone ever been so desperate for wee? I decide to share information with BMS so that he knows of my plight. He doesn’t seem that appreciative so I text him again. The text reads exactly like this:

‘IOS not a lie ink go staring there – meet tin in the bar when I’m done’

Sexy no?

7.30: I head straight for the loo and once done decide to touch up my make up. FOOLISH.

Ladies – never ever EVER try to touch up your liquid eyeliner after enough pale rose to tranquillise a horse. I can’t say for certain but I doubt mad panda will ever translate into wife material.

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I did not even look half this glorious.

7.45: Amazingly I am on my feet and being charming(ish) to BMS in the bar of the very nice gastropub he has taken me to. Unfortunately he’s also ordered me a glass of wine.

8.00: This is where I must say goodbye to you dear friends. I know not of what happened from this point onwards. What BMS kindly helped me piece together the next day was that I became a babbling mess, knocked over an entire bottle of wine, passed out at the table and had to be carried home like a rag doll.

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I woke up the next morning with a throbbing head, in BMS’ bed to be greeted with the words

‘Is it too early to take the piss out of you yet?’

Yes BMS – yes it is.

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