My Big Fat Belly hasn’t shrunk since last week, despite all the hard work I have done looking at it in the mirror and poking it. And there is a dead pigeon outside my building. You focus on this type of thing when you walk through the valley of the shadow of Hangover Paranoia. But for once, I don’t actually have H.P- I didn’t wake up this morning wondering if I acted like a dickhead all night…
…because I know I did.
But it’s ok, I know now that there’s no point worrying about my behaviour and cringing over it. I was born with this personality and I have to live with it for the rest of my life and I have accepted that, I’ve made my peace with being the girl who yells at strangers on the street at 4am: “If you ain’t a bit of meat on a metal stick and I can’t eat you, then GET OUT OF ME FACE!”
I’ve been on the edge of hysteria all day, partly because I was with Amy and Kayt who were also hungover and hungover people act like meths when they’re together, but also because last night was so ridiculous, not in a bad way, but there’s no other word to describe it.
The night was another product of mine and Amy’s drunken planning last week and I’m starting to think that maybe me and Amy shouldn’t be allowed to make more plans. I started to think this last night during Phase 1 of the plan, which was basically:
‘Get dim sum. Get wine. Consume on bench.’
Why would you eat Chinese food on a bench? And drink a bottle of wine? On a bench in the street, at half eight on a Saturday night? Why would you plan to do that?
Thankfully we had a flash of Good Sense just as we were opening the Chinese, so we took it to Amy’s and ate and drank everything there, like Normal People. Then we went and met The Others and we drank gin and tonic out of a water bottle. (Sometimes when I reread stuff on here it makes me wonder if everyone thinks we drink too much, but it was only an Evian bottle and it was between four of us.)
I was looking forward to a night of shameless RnB dancing and grinding, but when we got to Le Long Hop the pool table was still in the middle of the dance floor, so we just sat down with our drinks and waited for everyone to put their lighters up like Amy had promised.
Eventually the pool table was moved. We made our way over to the dance floor. I had a secret knowing smile on my face because I knew that everyone was about to be Shocked and Astounded when I pulled out my amazing RnB dance moves… Me and Amy had privately told each other in a moment of drunken honesty that we were both ‘really good’ at dancing to RnB music. Yes. We were those girls.
The music started and we bloody went for it. I say ‘we’, I’m just trying to make myself feel better by assigning some of the blame to someone else. It was definitely ‘me’ and not ‘us’ who requested Diva by Beyonce, cleared the dance floor by pushing strangers back against the walls declaring ‘C’est juste pour les filles!!’ (It’s just for the girls!) and then, oh god I don’t know if I can actually write this, then I danced in the middle of the dance floor like I was in the final scene of Save the Last Dance. There was definitely some shoulder-brushing.
But I really felt like we had to prove ourselves. There was a big group of guys who were really good at dancing and they wouldn’t let me and Amy join in. Every time they’d get into a circle and take it in turns to dance in the middle, me or Amy would jump in and they were having none of it. It took the Diva-move to make them see that we really are Terrific Dancers.
They also played that song that goes ‘Get low, get low,’ and the group of guys were doing a good job of getting slightly lower than they already were, but then me and Amy leapt into the middle of them and we got LOW. The only way we could have been any lower would have been if we were lying down on the floor.
After we had proved ourselves on the dance floor, we had a dance and a chat and then as I was dancing with a guy (who we nicknamed ‘Specky’ to give you an idea of how dangerous beer-goggles are), I looked across the room and locked eyes with…
My next door neighbour who I steal internet off was in the same club as me, it was so weird. I’ve not spoke to him for weeks and weeks but yesterday evening I was going to have a shower and I saw him going into his room. My hair was all mad because I’d taken it out of a bun and I had soap and a razor in my hand. Women don’t really use razors in France so he probably thinks I am some sort of transsexual with Shit Hair. Maybe he feels sorry for me and that’s why he lets me steal his internet.
I went over to him and said ‘Hello’ but now I am terrified I will see him loads in the corridor and he knows that I’m a Bad Dick who dances to R’n’B like she’s been locked in a barn listening to banjo music all her life.
When the club closed, our new RnB Loving Friends said that they knew another club nearby that played RnB that was open late, so went with them, eager for the night to continue with the irrational determination of the Very Drunk. The next day I can never remember why I was so obsessed with staying out, why I didn’t want to go home to bed, why I chose to find a shit, dodgy club to go to… all I ever remember is point blank refusing to call it a night.
The club wouldn’t let us in, maybe because we were four drunk idiot English girls with about ten guys from the banlieus, but we didn’t let this stop us. I have no idea how the conversation came about or who instigated it but somehow we ended up by the river drinking rum and coke and talking. Once again the secret French-speaker in me, who only comes out after dark and is fuelled by alcohol, came out to play… and to tell everyone that my dad is a gypsy- he’s not a gypsy, but I wish he was with Every Fibre Of My Being and when I’m drunk the lines between ‘reality’ and ‘dangerously delusional fantasy’ become strangely blurred.
Anyway we had us a nice little time down by the river. Despite what you may be thinking the guys were really, really nice and there were other people by the river; we are not that stupid that we would go to a dark, secluded riverside with ten nasty gangsters. One of them was actually very camp and hilarious and we love him. He texted us all this morning to say ‘hey crazy girls it was lovely to meet you, I want to see you guys again!’ His English was amazingly good but he’s actually from the French Caribbean. Everyone else there was French apart from this Jamaican guy who was lovely, until he told Kayt:
‘In Jamaica I like big punani, but in France I like little punani.’
(I’m hoping that I would be classed as ‘little punani’, although not for much longer. Today I had falafel from the Marais which is so big you don’t need to eat anything else afterwards for two weeks, yet we then went to the Mosque and had Middle Eastern cakes and tea and then we went to St Michel and had a kebab and chips. I really, really would pay good money for someone to follow me around yelling ‘IBIZA IN FOUR MONTHS! IBIZA IN FOUR MONTHS!’ because I am going to be very, very hot lying by the pool in my beach burka.)
The night doesn’t sound very ridiculous at the moment, but I haven’t told you about the tear gas or the Comedy Sexual Assault or the bunk bed yet. As usual I’m going to write a ‘Part 2’ because now I need to sleep all this food and alcohol off. I need a good night’s rest if I am going to go to work tomorrow and pretend to not be a Bad Meth who clears the dance floor aggressively and dines out on park benches.