If you’ve read at least one of my blogs or met me for at least 5 minutes you’re probably aware that sophistication and I do not go hand in hand.
Firstly, I think it’s basically impossible to exude an air of sophistication when you have hair that looks like an actual lion and you have a penchant for dressing like a mad person. Hello floor length lace dress with denim jacket covered in TASSLES. What’s not to love about this combo?!
Secondly I’m sort of…oh what’s the technical terms for when you love drinking all of the pink wine and climbing on things on a night out… oh yes…a massive show-off.
So when NSF (nice sensible flatmate) suggested we have a nice sophisticated night on the town, like what proper ladies do, I was intrigued but also aware that this probably wouldn’t go to plan.
This is no reflection on NSF who may I just say is one of the most sophisticated ladies I know. She always looks immaculate, even in her running gear, and her hair is never frizzy and her eyeliner never does that thing that mine does when it migrates up to my forehead somehow.
This is, however, a reflection on me. I am sadly a really bad influence. Not in a cool sexy way like Kate Moss in a slip dress, winking and saying ‘go on you know you want to’. In a bullying, mental ‘oh did you say you had a 5k to run tomorrow morning?! I thought you said you wanted to get wasted…my mistake. Here, have this shot of tequila’ type way.
Partially in my defence, it’s not as if NSF does not know this about me. Once, after she had been broken up with (via text – what a GUY!) I took her to the pub for ‘just the one’ and we ended up drinking four bottles of wine between us and cackling like witches whilst enjoying a piggyback taxi* from some blokes we met in the bar. Sigh.
*this sadly is not a euphemism for some raunchy sexual behaviour. Literally too drunk to walk so we ubered some men as one might have borrowed a horse from a field in medieval times.
So this time I decided to make a real effort. Gone were the days of such idiocy!
To prepare for this I decided to dress like a normal human and wear a skirt that couldn’t be re purposed as a pair of curtains. I also dug out the good ol’ lady boots. For anyone who doesn’t remember the immortal night when I trialled some flirting tips from the good people at match.com my lady boots are beautiful high black boots that are impossible to walk in after a few drinks and resulted in me stacking it whilst trying to ‘walk alluringly’ past perfection personified into male form*
*he had a pony tail, beard, neck tattoo. Enough said.
We started our evening at South Place Hotel in their secret garden. If you haven’t been go. The cocktails are brill and it feels like you might actually not be in the centre of Moorgate and instead in some delicious holiday paradise.
Also, in an extreme rarity for the city, there are no red faced suited buffoons trying to hit on you through the medium of ‘look at how much CASH I have…I have so much CASH…look at a photograph I took of all my CASH earlier today in my house also made entirely out of CASH.’
So we drank our cocktails perched on high stools, like the sophisticated ladies we now were.
Then something devastating happened.
NSF: ‘Shall we have another cocktail?’
Me: ‘mmm I’m not really feeling a cocktail… maybe some wine…’
Sexy bearded bartender: ‘Could I recommend the pale rose…it’s delicious’
Me & NSF: YES, PLEASE!!
Me: ‘you know…if we’re going to get a glass each…we may as well get a bottle…’
I will echo a former article on this blog when I say
NEVER EVER DRINK PINK WINE. IT TASTES DELICIOUS LIKE JUICE AND MAKES YOU MAD BAD AND SLUTTY.
Two bottles of wine later we had moved onto The Crown and Shuttle namely because the wine is cheap and they serve chips coated in cheese but call them ‘Truffle parmesan chips’ so makes you feel classier.
Mid way through our first bottle of wine (in that establishment OK – it resets with each new place you go! Yes, it DOES!) we got chatting to two nice young gentleman sitting at our table.
I say two nice young gentlemen however I should correct this to one extremely attractive gentleman and his drunk gross mate. NSF was having a lovely conversation with Handsome Man whilst I fended off Drunk Mate’s Octopus hands and visibly sulked.
Witty conversation ensued
Drunk mate: Are you girls shhhingle?
Handsome Man: god mate shut up
NSF: Yes, we are
Drunk Mate: I wennn on a date last night…hiccup…it was terrible…let me tell you the story…blablablablbla….rambling on…blablablablabla….the girl didn’t fancy me therefore is a dick…blablablabla
Insufferable show off (me): IVE got a good dating story
NSF: oh no please don’t
Handsome Man: God I don’t know how you all do it, when I met my wife I…………..oh sorry this part seems to have turned into white noise as NSF and I exchanged looks that clearly said ‘I think this conversation is over’.
We may have been disheartened by this sad turn of events, however we were not beaten just yet! Not content to call it a night we headed to a bar where NSF’s friend was djing.
I made my way in, teetering on my lady boots, the image of sophistication (I had lipstick on my nose).
And then I spied him. The most beautiful man alive (or so said the pale rose goggles). True he wasn’t my usual type in that he looked like he had showered in the last few days but I’m nice like that. I don’t discriminate.
So I headed across the dancefloor to begin my sophisticated lady flirting.
With this level of flirting going on what happened next can hardly be a surprise.
Reader… I LUNCHED HIM
For those unfamiliar with this term. It’s exactly how it sounds.
After spending some quality time together (doing shots and behaving like children) I decided that my soul mate and I should probably continue the party back at my flat
Waaahhheeeyyyoioioioioioioi (insert non-descript lad banter noise here)
What a sophisticated lady would have done at this point is poured him a chilled glass of wine and slipped off to the bedroom whilst murmuring ‘I’m just going to slip into something more comfortable’.
What I did was this:
Located an old can of elderflower pimms for him to drink that someone had left behind at a barbecue long before I even moved into the flat whilst murmuring ‘wheerrrflurberl-bla-put-y-blurrr-pj’s-on’ before stumbling off to my bedroom.
A sophisticated lady would have emerged from her boudoir wearing a silk nightdress and some sort of fur (See I don’t even KNOW what they do!) and sashayed across the room towards him.
Did I do this?
No. no I did not.
Instead I emerged in a pair of trousers I once bought to go to a party as MC Hammer. It was a pop icon party and I thought it would be funny. It was less funny when every other girl there was dressed as Britney Spears Circa hit me baby one more time.
I ‘sashayed’ across the room and planted myself proudly in front of him.
Him: oh right. Hello.
Me: These are my MC Hammer pants
Me: Breaks spontaneously into Mc Hammer impersonation with no warning or invitation. The handsome man is so shocked he spills his pimms into his lap.
After a rather lengthy impersonation I collapsed next to him on the sofa. I think at this point the handsome man must have thought…oh god I’m here so I may as well…and reached out to put his arms around me.
Did I respond by swooning into his arms? Did we fall passionately in love? Am I writing this now as he stares at me adoringly wondering what our kids will look like.?
Instead I curled myself up tightly into a teeny tiny ball of furious drunk MC Hammer lookalike rage and shouted DON’T TOUCH ME WITH YOUR POKEY FINGERS!!
He showed himself out.
His loss I say