Whiny Millenial Bullshit

I was three weeks late to my own birth so it astounds me that I’m expected to be on time for anything else. Apparently I came out snarling and covered in eczema so I was rushed off to intensive care or something. To quote my mother, Lady Di, I was the ugliest baby she’d ever seen. Every photo of me in the first few months of my life show a very unhappy, pissed-off baby. I think I was pretty much over life before I’d even left the womb. I didn’t ask to be born and I certainly didn’t ask to be born poor to a family from Speke.

My parents didn’t even have a name for me so I was born naked and nameless. Originally they were going to call me Connor but supposedly the bitch next door stole that name for her unborn sprog, she’d already copied my older brother’s name for her first child and Diane wasn’t playing that game anymore. The doctor/nurse type person who delivered me was called Justin and my nan fancied him so they called me Justin for about 5 minutes. I’ve seen pictures of him, he was a solid 8.5 so maybe that why Diane decided to change it, since I looked like the spawn of Satan and all. I’m not saying my mother is the devil herself but I guess the bitch apple doesn’t fall far from the bitch tree. No tea, no shade. Anyway they stuck me with the name Michael which is very original considering both my parents have brothers called Michael, they must have wanted me to feel unique and special from word go. Maybe there was a gaydar in the delivery room and they took an immediate dislike to me because they decided to use my dad’s name as my middle name, he is unfortunately called Raymond. I think if I ever have a child I’d just call them baby boy or baby girl until they were old enough to choose their own name.

My birth was probably the cruellest event of my life. It has yet to be confirmed but I’m pretty sure my first words were ‘I can’t be assed’. My grandparents were very religious so I got baptised and all that jazz. I hope to God there isn’t a heaven because if I have to spend an eternity as myself I will literally die. Actually, let’s be honest I’m going to hell and I hope to God young Stalin is there, because he was fine AF.

Deuces.

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A Beautiful Boy

Don’t fall in love

with a beautiful boy

because boys don’t cry but boys do kill.

They’ll poison your brain,

they’ll puncture your heart

and they’ll never let you go again.

 

Here we go again.

I’m falling in love

and he’s hurting my heart,

this beautiful boy

with the beautiful brain

who’s destined to kill.

 

If his looks could kill

I’d look back again

and ignoring my conflicted brain

I’d surrender my love

to the hands of the boy

with the ice-cold heart.

 

A beating heart

couldn’t possibly kill

this lonely boy

who’s alone again

because he fell in love

in spite of his brain.

 

What use is a brain

against a broken heart

that needs to feel love

and so submits to the kill

again and again

for this beautiful boy.

 

Here comes the boy

with the beautiful brain

to claim again

my token heart

which he’s going to kill

because that’s how he loves.

 

He whispers to me, “Goodbye, my love.”

and he goes in for the kill

and out with my heart.

Fresh Hell February

January gets a really bad rep. Its freaking cold and everyone has taken down their fairy lights which I think is the saddest part. Fair enough you can tear down the tree and banish those ugly, little Nativity figures back to the loft but what did the lights do to deserve such cold-hearted treatment? Looking at a figurine of a baby Jesus, that looks like it suffered a traumatic birth and needs to be incubated in the intensive care unit rather than rolling around in the hay in some dirty manger, does not lift my spirits. Pretty, little fairy-lights on the other hand work wonders. Not the flashing ones that Diane insists on getting from Poundland each year though, they make me fear epilepsy.

When I was living in Manresa I got lost on the way to a Christmas Concert, there was a wall near the school that I was looking for and it had these huge ants painted all over it. I had no other option than to run up to people and shout the word ‘colegio’, which means school, and do my best impression of an ant climbing a wall. One woman actually seemed to understand me because rather than calling the police, she kindly pointed me in the right direction. The next street I turned onto was lit up by fairy lights and for a moment I didn’t even care if I found the school because I had found Christmas and lights and hope. Fairy lights are hope people! They aren’t even that festive. Everyone could do with a little twinkle, twinkle in their lives. Keep them up till Summer I say. I’d start a petition but cba.

I did eventually find the school and I cried when these cute Catalonian kids sang ‘Let it be’. It must have been due to a mixture of homesickness and the joy I got from those lights because I bloody hate the Beatles.

To get back to my main point, January is not the big bad, for me anyway. I do however still live in fear of January. Does anyone else’s mum make a huge deal the first time the doorbell goes after midnight on New Year’s Eve? Diane bloody does. She thinks whoever first steps into our hallway brings in the ‘luck’ for that year. I however want to board that stupid door up. If I had my way everyone would be forced to use the gate in the back garden, climb through windows or never enter or leave the house again. Whatever works for them as long as no one opens that damn door. I know exactly who is waiting outside ready to bring in the ‘luck’ for that year and it’s not a sweet, old grandma or a delivery man from Iceland. It’s Anxiety. Anxiety ready to do a twirl in its floaty red dress and say those fatal words, ‘Surprise Bitch! I bet you thought you’d seen the last of me’.

January for me is waking up every day, grabbing a hold of my sanity and running for my life. Every time I turn around anxiety is two steps behind me, clutching the stich in its side because it’s an unhealthy bitch. I don’t stop running for the full 31 days, I do slow down but every time I do, fortunately anxiety does too. Finally, the 31st day arrives and the finish line is in sight, but It doesn’t say ‘Finish Line’ on its banner-type-thing, it says February and that my friends is the trick. I cross that line and breathe a huge sigh of relief. I put my sanity down, just for a second, to do a celebratory dance to an Ariana Grande banger, maybe have a vodka, light a ciggie, pop a Kalms, whatever. But in those couple of moments that I stop, Anxiety flies into February, scoops up my sanity and sprints off into the distance towards March.

At this point I’m usually star-fishing on the cold hard ground, looking up at the sky in my fairy-light-less surroundings whispering “Oh shit. Here we go again.”

Days and nights can pass before I can gather the strength to crawl after it. Sometimes it takes weeks before my sanity is even in sight again, trapped in Anxiety’s creepy hands, sometimes it takes months. Each and every time this happens I am absolutely terrified.

This year, it’s only the second day of February and here I lie in bed at 2pm, un-showered, dreading calling work to tell them that the doctor has just signed me off for 2 weeks so I will not be sat at my desk at 4pm. Yesterday I felt myself slipping under that desk on the brink of tears and I knew if I got under that desk then I wasn’t coming back out.

I have worked too fucking hard to get my life on track despite these never-ending battles with anxiety.  Too hard to let some crank who is screaming at me because their monthly statement hasn’t been hole-punched, take everything I’ve worked for away from me.

Not this time bitch.

I’ve had enough.

I’m taking a break.

Deuces.

I feel fucking sick.

I feel fucking sick because Donald Trump is the most powerful man in the world and making these vile, atrocious, despicable decisions.

I feel fucking sick that the Obamas had to face the upmost disrespect in handing over the keys to the White House to such a revolting family, after everything they did for the people that voted this abomination into power.

I feel fucking sick that there are children, parents, humans stranded in an airport with no idea what is going to happen to them. People who have worked their asses of to escape war and terror, people seeking safety and the chance to provide themselves and their children with hope of a better life.

I feel fucking sick that there are airport staff with mouths to feed at home having to carry out their work responsibilities that conflict with everything that they believe in.

I feel fucking sick that there are Mosques on fire and people living in fear of what the very near future holds for them.

I feel fucking sick that the leader of our country hasn’t said shit.

I feel fucking sick that my friend is worried she won’t be able to attend her graduation in America because of the country she was born in. After everything she has worked for, including shoving her arms up cow’s asses.

I feel fucking sick because I have never been so aware of my privilege.

I feel fucking sick because my current biggest stress is that I am fortunate enough to have a job that I hate and think is a complete waste of my time yet it provides me with money to spend on things that I don’t fucking need. My biggest stress is that I am fortunate enough to have a job that I complain about 24/7. My biggest stress is that I am fortunate enough to have a job.

I feel fucking sick that I have wasted huge portions of my life being depressed over menial, irrelevant shit that doesn’t fucking matter.

I feel fucking sick that I will spend hours reading about the time Paris Hilton didn’t pay $208 for her storage container and her personal possessions were exposed online yet I have no fucking clue what is going on within the politics of the country I live in.

I feel fucking sick because I’m lying in bed in the house that I live in rent free, eating crisps that I didn’t pay for and binge watching Once Upon A Fucking Time using a Netflix account that isn’t mine.

I feel fucking sick because I don’t know what else to do.

 

 

 

Poverty Princess on the Definitive Albums of the ***Noughtie$***

The Holy Quaternary of Albums

Definition of Quaternity, plural Quaternities:  a union of a group or set of four

I realise Trinity sounds so much better but I couldn’t leave one out.

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  1. Good Girl Gone Bad – Rihanna

Good Girl Gone Bad took Rihanna from R&B Pop Princess to fully fledged mainstream Queen. Umbrella was the definitive song of 2007. Your parents were sick to death of hearing it and your grandparents blamed Rihanna for ‘one of the wettest summers’ they’d ever seen. I was obsessed with this album. Rihanna released 5 singles from it and then rereleased the whole album as Good Girl Gone Bad: Reloaded with three new singles. I’ve never felt anticipation stronger than when I was waiting for the music video to Disturbia

The tour for this album was my first ever concert. I took my friend as an apology for putting her in a neck brace in Italy, after an unfortunate accident in a toboggan. It was amazing. The concert. Not the neck brace casualty.

Rehab is in my Top 10 Rihanna songs. There’s no better song to listen to when you’re having a cigarette in the rain, feeling dramatic and considering quitting.

Breakin’ Dishes is also one of the most underrated Rihanna songs of all time & would be my go to in a lip sync for my life.

 

  1. Blackout – Britney Spears

It’s Britney Bitch may be the most iconic quote of the noughties. Blackout was released on my birthday and brought out a side in me that I thought only existed in strippers. 2007 was an absolutely dire year for Britney; divorce, head-shaving, custody battle, hospitalization, pink wigs, no knicker parties with Hilton and Lohan and an awful British Accent. Her performance with an umbrella almost eclipsed Rihanna’s. Yet Blackout is probably one of her pivotal, most consistent albums.

Blackout was fun, sexy and her retaliation to the media and it’s treatment of her over the years. The whole theme fit in perfectly with the car-crash that was her life at the time.

I will never get over the time I shuffled my iPod and Break the Ice came on straight after Katy Perry’s Ur So Gay:

“PENIS.”

“…It’s been a while.”

I was 13 and immature and laughed for days.

Unfortunately, Britney was in no fit state to tour Blackout but 2 years later my poor father drove me, and my now neck brace-free friend, all the way to London for the greatest comeback tour the world of Pop has ever seen: The Circus.

Throughout the tour, in true Britney style, she greeted Manchester by telling them ‘I’m so excited to be here in London’, forgot to turn her microphone off and announced to the audience that ‘MY PUSSY IS HANGING OUT” and had her extensions ragged out when they got caught in a couch as she was being levitated by a sex swing.

QUEEN.

 

  1. The Fame – Lady Gaga

Lady Gaga came out of nowhere and The Fame changed the Pop game forever. It was before she wore the meat dress, before she hatched out of that bloody egg and before the Fame became the Fame Monster. The controversy became too much and her shock value was destroyed to the point that people would have been more shocked had she came out wearing some high waist skinnies and a GAP jumper.

However, The Fame will forever be in the cannon of Pop Culture, as will Gaga herself. The Fame was hands down one of the greatest pop debut albums of all time. She brought disco stick into our vocabulary and made us look at that Bernard Matthews turkey ham in the fridge in a very different way.

I bought tickets to see the Pussycat Dolls when their star was beyond fading and they now featured Nicole Scherzinger, simply because Gaga was supporting. My companion was an hour late with the tickets and I only saw the very end of Just Dance. I knew I should have gone with neck brace.

 

  1. I Am Sasha Fierce – Beyoncé

Without Sasha, Smashton Fierce would never exist. Words will never do this album justice. Sasha Fierce cemented Beyoncés icon status. I’mma let ya’ll finish but Beyoncé had the most memorable album of all time, well definitely of the Noughties. I’m yet to see Sasha in the flesh. I don’t think I’m ready for that jelly and tbh don’t think I ever will be. I literally will die (play Save the Hero at my funeral or someone’s getting Haunted).

This album speaks for itself so I don’t have to, after all she is Sasha Fierce and I am a mere mortal.

 

& The Best Live Performance Goes To…

 

No words necessary. Just look at Rihanna’s reaction.

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The 90s were incredible. Britney Spears debuted her first album, The Spice Girls were formed and a Sabrina the Teenage Witch was everything. You know who doesn’t get enough credit? The Noughties. The Pussycat Dolls had us loosening up the buttons on our denim mini-skirts whilst listening to their songs, downloaded using Limewire, on our Motorola flip phones. Beyoncé went solo, Island girl Rihanna migrated to America and Britney …. well we all know what Britney did. Given a toss-up between spending an eternity in either decade, I honestly don’t know which one I’d choose. Who am I kidding? The Simple life gave me life and Paris Hilton released a single in the noughties. I know exactly which one I’d choose. I cannot wait to order a cheap, synesthetic blonde wig, oversized sunglasses and a fake Louis V for my Paris Costume for the 00s party I’m attending this February.

Here’s a playlist of Divas to enjoy at your very own Noughtie’s inspired slumber party, get the Bacardi Breezers in girls, because you’re worth it.

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  1. Oops!…I Did It Again – Britney Spears

 

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The hardest decision of my life was choosing between this & Lucky as the opening act.

Nostalgia Power: 10/10

  1. Don’t Let Me Get Me – P!nk

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P!nk taught all 90s babies the meaning of teenage angst before they even knew what hormones were. She gave us the perfect outlet for raging at our mum for not getting us the LG chocolate for Christmas.

Nostalgia Power: 6.5/10

 

  1. Love Don’t Cost A Thing – Jennifer Lopez

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Jenny from the Block was representing big booties before Kimmy K was even organising Paris’ wardrobe.

Nostalgia Power: 4/10

 

  1. Dirrty – Christina Aguilera

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If your parents caught you dancing to Christina with your Ethel Austin’s knickers pulled up above your ripped jeans then you weren’t allowed to play out for like a week.

Nostalgia Power: 9/10

 

  1. All The Things She Said – t.A.T.u

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“Mum, what’s a lesbian?”

My favourite song of all time.

Fond memories of my friend CWR texting the DJ at the silent disco in Leeds, “t.A.T.u please.”  “t.A.T.u and I’ll show my tits.” “ t.A.T.u or I’ll bomb.” “ WHY YOU NO LIKE RUSSIAN LESBIANS.”

Also screaming at a girl friend in the toilet at a party that she didn’t have time to wipe because I could hear the intro coming from the DJ booth.

Nostalgia Power: 10/10 (If you disagree, you’re lying)

 

  1. Sk8er Boi – Avril Lavgine

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Most Noughties song title of all time.

Nostalgia Power: 7.5

 

  1. Wake Up – Hilary Duff

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I’m with her.

Nostalgia Power: 7

 

  1. Sound Of The Underground – Girls Aloud

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No wet-play at Primary School was complete without a Girls Aloud dance routine for the Dinner ladies.

Nostalgia Power: 6/10

 

  1. Superstar – Jamelia

 

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Anthem of every school disco.

Nostalgia Power: 10

 

  1. Baby Boy – Beyoncé

 

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Dutty Wining since ’03.

Nostalgia Power: 7.5

  1. Milkshake – Kelis

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Grab a McDonalds Banana shake and shake those hips.

Nostalgia Power: 10/10

  1. (There’s Gotta Be) More To Life – Stacie Orrico

 

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If you don’t remember this one don’t ever return to this site again.

Nostalgia Power: 6.5

 

  1. Pieces Of Me – Ashlee Simpson

 

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Perfect for sitting next to the landline all day, every day.

Nostalgia Power: 7

 

  1. These Words – Natasha Bedingfield

 

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Every day I pray for the words ‘Natasha Bedingfield is making a comeback”.

Nostalgia Power: 10

 

  1. You Had Me – Joss Stone

 

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Back in the days when Joss’ man was her biggest concern, not whether her head was going to remain firmly on her shoulders or not.

Nostalgia Power: 5

 

  1. Dip It Low – Christina Milian

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Christina Milian, the most underappreciated Diva of all time. She is the Mulan of the music industry. If this playlist was in order of Banger Power rather than chronological, Dip It Low would be #1.

Nostalgia Power: 10

 

  1. Leave (Get Out) – JoJo

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JoJo, Feminist OG.

Nostalgia Power: 10

 

  1. What You Waiting For? – Gwen Stefani

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“Mum, what’s a stupid ho?”

Nostalgia Power: 7

 

  1. Push The Button – Sugababes

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Getting in a lift/elevator was never the same again.

Nostalgia Power: 9

 

  1. Buttons – The Pussycat Dolls (not feat. Nicole Scherzinger at this point, officialy)

 

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Inventors of the slut drop.

Nostalgia Power: 10

 

  1. Since U Been Gone – Kelly Clarkson

 

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Kelly Clarkson was very nearly the first concert I ever went to, only I couldn’t find a companion. Shocking.

Nostalgia Power: 7

  1. 4ever – The Veronicas

 

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Listening to this on The Waltzers was my dream thanks to She’s The Man. Still dreaming.

Nostalgia Power: 6

 

  1. 1 Thing – Amerie

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Still trying to master that Turkey Gargle.

Nostalgia Power: 9

  1. Me & U – Cassie

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Cassie come back! This would be #2 in Banger Power order. Timeless.

Nostalgia Power: 10

 

  1. We Belong Together – Mariah Carey

 

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Wentworth Miller’s appearance in the music video had my new found hormones all over the place.

Nostalgia Power: 7

 

  1. Glamorous – Fergie

 

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The perfect word to describe how you felt with your quiff up, hoops in, listening to your iPod Nano on the bus.

Nostalgia Power: 9

 

  1. Promiscuous – Nelly Furtado

 

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#3 Banger Power.

Nostalgia Power: 10

 

  1. Hips Don’t Lie – Shakira

 

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Released around the time I was obsessed with tampon humour and took ‘I’m on tonight, my hip’s don’t lie’ a literal too literal.

Nostalgia Power: 10

  1. Come Back To Me – Vanessa Hudgens

 

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Maybe if Baby V hadn’t tarnished her squeaky-clean Disney image, I really think she could have outshone Miley.

Nostalgia Power: 4

  1. Confessions Of A Broken Heart (Daughter To Father) – Lindsay Lohan

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Lindsay got deep with her daddy issues and expressed her pain through her music, rather than cocaine consumption on credit. That was the latter part of the noughties.

Nostalgia Power: 5

 

  1. Stars Are Blind – Paris Hilton

 

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When Paris wasn’t at work selling Salty Anal Weiner Burgers on the Simple Life, she was dropping bangers like this.  This would have gone to #1 if it wasn’t Paris. People need to leave rich, white women alone.

Nostalgia Power: 9

 

  1. Headstrong – Ashley Tisdale

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Ashley Tisdale walking the red carpet in a dress and jeans combo has still got me feeling something to this day. Get you a girl who can do both OG.

Nostalgia Power: 6

  1. Potential Breakup Song – Aly &AJ

 

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Aly and AJ inspired us all to send that ‘You’re jibbed’ text. Which one is Aly? Which one is AJ? Who cares? I didn’t know then and I don’t know now. But there’s no denying that this is an absolute tune.

Nostalgia Power: 8.5

  1. What Hurts The Most – Cascada

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Choosing a Cascada song was like Sophie’s Choice but this one hits you right in the feels.

Nostalgia Power: 5

  1. Umbrella – Rihanna

 

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Umbrella was #1 for about 2/3s of 2007.

Nostalgia Power: 10

  1. I Kissed A Girl – Katy Perry

 

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Sales of cherry chap sticks rocketed.

Nostalgia Power: 8.5

  1. Just Dance – Lady Gaga

 

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YASSSSSSS GAGA. YOU LOOK SO YOUNG.

Nostalgia Power: 9

  1. In For The Kill – La Roux

 

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I really appreciated La Roux’s first album. I did not appreciate people teling me I looked like her.

Nostalgia Power: 7

 

  1. Party In The USA – Miley Cyrus

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Back when Miley was still Hannah Montana and posing topless beneath a sheet was her biggest controversy. Oh and some pretty racist Myspace pics.

Nostalgia Power: 8

  1. Tik Tok – Ke$ha

 

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Fun Fact: Before Ke$ha, I actually didn’t know who Mick Jagger was.

2016 has been awful for Ke$ha, I hope 2017 treats her good.

Nostalgia Power: 10

 Always remember, Pop music saves lives & Bill Clinton did not have sexual relations with that woman.

XOXO

Smashton Fierce

Poverty Princess VS Hangovers From Hell

It’s a well-known fact that the older you get, the longer the hangover lasts. I go too hard on the £10 Prosecco in Spoons on a Thursday, I don’t recover till a Sunday afternoon. You also lose control of your mind, body and soul a lot easier. Last Thursday, under the influence of the Spoons Prosecco, I laughed so hard a bit of pee came out. Just a tad, so it doesn’t count as full on wetting myself. I did however stay at my main chick’s Jenny’s after and have to go commando for uni the next day, which is degrading enough. I haven’t veeted since October 30th and nobody makes jeans with my waist size and leg length combo, so it was a risky game until my dad dropped underwear off at my nans at 2.30pm. I was taking my niece to a Christmas Fayre where the children had gathered to see Father Christmas’ beard, not a Poverty Princess’ pubes.  The good thing about Raymond Ashton? He never asks questions.  On the Sunday I got so drunk I left my phone in an Uber and had to bribe the driver to return it with a tenner. I then had the screaming craps for two days.

Thought the duration is longer, I will never experience a hangover quite like the time I mineswept in Mojos and hit a bomb. I was 18 and poor, working for £2.50 and hour in a hairdressers. A glass of red winked at me and the next minute it was four hours later and I was vomiting over my friend’s shoulder in Heebies Courtyard. Before it got all fancy with tables and chairs. I proceeded to vomit in a taxi and woke up on my friend’s bedroom floor, swimming in piss. I then had to go straight to Hope Street in all his clothes, underwear included, to do a street performance of mute volleyball. I was rolling on the cobbles in the pouring rain, jaw swinging. Still somehow managed to wing a Merit in Community Arts. Community Colleges are the definition of getting points for showing up. Whether under the influence of unwanted Ket or not.

There is also the time in Kavos, after skinny dripping with a stranger, I was so fucked I couldn’t open the door to the apartment and thought my friends had been proper snids and locked me out .Really I was just pushing a door that needed to be pulled. I passed out on a sun lounger and woke up as a lobster with third degree burns. Turned into a proper boss tan though.

No matter how drunk/hungover I get, I always wake up the next day glad I’m not my friend. Let’s call her, Susan*. She’s the momma of hangovers.

We all know a Susan. Susan loves a bev. She likes cider, wine and vodka. All at the same time. Susan once climbed on the counter of Krunchy Fried Chicken and tried to exchange an iPhone for chicken, yelling ‘It’s a good phone, just take it!’. Her mum woke her up the next day on her doorstep. Susan once simultaneously vomited and farted on my thigh as I was burping her outside Baa Bar. She’s also done this on a motorway on the way to an airport, after going round too many roundabouts. Susan gets travel sick on the 82 to town, add in a hangover and its game over. Susan once vomited in a plastic bag on a coach with a locked toilet from Edinburgh to Manchester, she didn’t get to empty it until Glasgow. Susan once vomited in the teeny, tiny gap that used tickets go in on a train home from the Warehouse Project, after turning 50 shades of green. Susan disappeared at Leeds Festival ’10 with Spiderman and later text her friends pretending to be at the Silent Disco, describing it as ‘Fun Init’. Susan is a real messy bitch. Also, the word pashmina reminds her of vagina.

Susan is now a full-time bar maid who pole dances for fun. Init.

The hangover tale I’m about to share with you now is a verbatim voice note my friend Anthony Edwards* shared with me, regarding his mother of all hangovers;

“This is a voice message, about the time when I fell asleep in Mojo. So it was just like any other night really. I come home from London, where I was studying, and it was Ella Minani’s* birthday. So, we decided to have drinks in Ella’s house. So we are having a good time, dancing around, taking pictures. You know, what cool people do. So we were just chilling and things got fun, you know, just having a little bevvy. Time goes on, we go into town, have a little boogie. But what we drank earlier, it wasn’t… it wasn’t enough. So, one thing that escapes me however, I think… I’m not sure if this same evening we met… so, me Lucky* and Margaret* and Persian Princess are having pre-drinks in Persian Princess’ house and we went into town and there I think we met Elsa* and Sparky*. I think this was second year.  So me,  Elsa and Marcus are in Heebies’ Basement, having a good time, probably some banger came on, we all went to the dancefloor, we were all sitting down in one of the arches. Just chilling, having a little rest from our boogie… and Sparky spots a baggy on the floor. We go and pick up the baggy. Excitedly. And then we all decide together, in a group effort, that it would be a good idea to have some of the baggy. We do. So we have the baggy and we’re like let’s change place, so we go to Mojo. Cause in Mojo you can steal. We’ve already stolen drugs, we might as well steal drinks from other people. We do this, dance on tables and have a great time.

I’m now drunk. And maybe drugged. And maybe been Rohyphnoled as well. So I decide to go to the toilet. And I guess that’s all I remember. I went to the toilet … and I guess that was my final resting place for the evening. I lock myself in and no one knew where I was. My friends not being boys, didn’t go into the toilet to find me because they just couldn’t. And they thought I’d disappeared. They left the club and went to … erm, what’s it called? That bar on the top of Bold Street, with the sign outside? I can’t remember what it’s called right now. They go there.

So my mum, having not heard from me, is worried and decides to get the car into town. She goes to this bar which my friends are at and starts questioning them as to where I am. They don’t know. They thought that I’d gone home and that I’d be with her. I wasn’t. At this point I wake up in the bar, in the toilets of Mojo. Disorientated. Phone in hand. I then proceed to leave the toilets like, ‘What the fuck? Where am I? What time is it?’. I hope to find other revellers in the club. There are none. The club is empty. I try to go out the front door. The grid is closed. I am panicking now. I then escape through the back entrance next to the bar. I emerge, well I don’t remember the journey from Mojo to the Bombed-Out Church, but I arrive at the Bombed-out Church and there was my mother in her Jaguar. I got in and I was taken home. I cried. I got home and saw my sister. I cried and I hugged her. The end.”

 

Moral of the blog? Don’t minesweep. Don’t do drugs. Don’t go to Mojos.

Especially don’t do abandoned drugs off the floor.

Also Mojo needs to do a more thorough toilet check at the end of the night.

If anyone wants to buy the rights to the tales of Mojo and turn it into a film, please e-mail me.

It’s a Sunday afternoon so I’m going to leave you to your own hangovers now, have a peaceful duvet death.

Happy vommin’.

 

XOXO

*All names have been changed to protect my friends who are now fully functioning adults, kind of.

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