Friday night

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So we need to organise everything for our trip this weekend, but it’s a Friday night, and we’ve agreed to meet some girls for a night out. I work with one of the girls, and we’ve gone out with the same group before. The last time however, the Danish and myself were on our ways to being paralytic when they got there and having proceeded with reckless abandon on said path, we can’t remember too much about these lasses. So we’ll call them WorkGirl (whose name I know, but it wouldn’t be right to give the others nicknames and not her), BlondeChick (gee, I wonder what her salient features where) and Lightweight (find out later). Yes, we stole the nickname thing from Tucker, but seeing as this isn’t going to be read by anything more than people who are legally obliged to do so, Hey, Fuck it.

Danish and I decide it would be a good idea to drink a bottle of tequila on our way to meeting them in Putney. We start off at home drinking it with cranberry juice, which tasted like pure Tequila, and drank it with lime out of a bottle on the way to the station, which tasted like Tequila and lime. I love the fact that you can walk through town necking Tequila for death and this is legal. Got to love the Chav culture, well when it works in our favour anyway.

We proceed to have pre-drinks somewhere in Putney, where to spice it up a little we have Red bull with our tequila. Tequila on its own has been known to have a slightly worrying affect on my ability to make smart decisions, and Danish’s ability to make smart decisions is impaired by the fact that he’s well, Danish. Red bull makes us hyperactive, and we go off in search of brain pickling substances.

We move on to the main show, which is at some bar in Brixton where the mouseketeers know the DJ. We’re on the list, which is awesome, as it leaves us more money to spend on beer and other weapons of mass destruction. In our pursuit to look hot on holiday (boys do it too), we look disdainfully down on the beer and move back onto the only true love of my life, Mescal.

And this is where the night starts taking a turn from the worse. WorkGirl is in the mood to drink, and the rest of us take that as either a challenge, or a complete gauntlet slap to the face of our abilities to live up to the moniker of “Drunken Saffa in London”. So we proceed to throw down our Tequila’s and lime with reckless abandon, and BlondeChick and Lightweight decide to fight toe to toe with us, and BlondeChick puts up a hell of a battle. Within an hour and a half we’re all swirling with abandon and shaking our asses on the dance floor

At this stage of the fight the battle starts getting hazy, Lightweight does what Lightweight does, and that’s pass out on the couch, sitting straight up. WorkGirl is trying to keep time with the band or Dj’s on a tambourine, but as far as I was aware she was failing miserably, Danish is dancing with his Shadow in the corner, blissfully unaware of happenings around him, music, the fact that he’s awake and everything else that isn’t in the glass of what now can only be described as tomorrows sins in his hand.

Me, I’m on a wall being mauled by BlondeChick. Fantastic. I’m off my ear, and having the time of my life, The next thing i know its stupid o clock, the lights are on and we need to leave. There’s a reasonably large period of time where no one i asked can adequately describe what the hell happened, but everyone concerned is in some state of terminal decay.

Waking up the next morning to the evil bloodsucking bastard known as the Argos delivery dude, who thankfully was an illegal immigrant, so probably didn’t really get the drift of the vile profanities pouring out of me as i walked towards the door. Sometimes it sucks living on the ground floor, that shit wasn’t even mine.

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Comments

[Sam]

I like it. Nice touch, what with The Danish and all. (Watch out for them - I never met one that wasn't up to something...). I sure prefer reading about your hangover than sporting one myself... (a little pat on the back for giving up drinking). Aaargh.