media whore

Saturday began like every other day -me lying in bed at 7 a.m, cursing my body clock for its stubborn refusal to allow me to sleep in. I pulled my laptop onto my chest (noting the word 'chestop' while giggling at my innate geniosity and boyish charm) and checked my mails:

From: Celina. Subject: I have Press Passes.. Media whores? Should we start tonight?

With a subject line as vague as that I knew it was going to be a smashing evening so I got out of bed and wrestled on my Sunday best.

With all the excitment of leaving my flat to join real-life insane people (or, as my ex girlfriend calls them The Others), I forgot to check what time I was meeting the boys and left three hours too early. So, like any self-respecting wannabe media whore I ventured into the gentlemen's club with Jack* to wet my whistle. The Guinness went down well but I was unimpressed with the girl from the PR company who insisted on GETTING THE LIST in order to detemine WHO SHE ACTUALLY WANTS AT THE PARTY, her boyfriend also seemed a bit peeved that she was more interested in eating her pink motorola razor-phone and not his orange moisturized razor-face.

After three or four my crew escorted me out and we made our merry way (my merry way anyways) to the shindig. We got in the door, jotted our names down on the guestbook and made a bee-line to the bath of corona in the back garden. Peter* threw me a joint I never asked for and told me about his ploy to introduce hardcore gaming into the lives of naive teens. Assuming I had just come into contact with the spawn of Satan, I went through the obvious emotions: shock, curiosity, understanding, acceptance and finally encouragement. I advised him the best way to go about it (I was young relatively recently) and went to see how the nouveaux beer-swilling fiend that is Celina Murphy was doing.
Celina was doing good.

After drinking our fair share (cause we had to be fair of course) and keeping the crowd entertained we took a bathroom break. I think it was the outter-body experience of hearing myself utter the phrase 'Celina, wait until I'm finished before you shake it' coupled with the sight of a certain daytime TV presenter chowing down a piece of half-eaten chocolate cake he found on a table that told me it was about time to go. Peter and his mate Paul* suggested we Bond in a Casino (see what I did there?). We whole-heartedly agreed. The casino was 25 bucks in. We went elsewhere.

So as to avoid the frankly outrageous concept of buying drinks, we etched around the ladies for about twenty minutes trying to find a bottle opener for the bath beer we fleeced. I got bored and decided to revert to the only way I know how to deal with problems; by smashing them off a sink.

He's definitely a cross between Vic Mackey and that dude from Crystal Maze, I thought as the bouncer bandaged my slashed up hand, although I'm not sure if he has the badass look down well enough to take on a natter of Siberian druglords, or if he could do it in a pair of fishnet holdups and a multi-coloured moc croc headpiece....

Around 5 a.m we took my bruised ego home and fed it chocolate pudding. We watched House and fell asleep. I dreamt about Barack Obama again. This time I was the girl.
(The following two days are vague and filled with beer, explicit nudity, two young blonde girls with a penchant for over staying welcomes and swan-kicking...I probably wouldn't get in to it even if I could...)

*names have been changed so as to protect the identity of Hitler's sons.