My head is swimming, and for the first time since starting Notes from the Intern, the events of last night are so shameful, so embarrassing, I was truly considering not posting at all. I was just going to say it was a drunken night; that I don’t quite remember what happened. Short and sweet, but oh so much of a lie.
However, I’ve received so many comments and emails from you, my loyal bloggy readers, saying that you enjoy the honest misery of my existence so much that my foibles bring smiles to your faces. So, I must continue blogging, even when it’s embarrassing. My posts are for the betterment of humanity. Plus, I’m positive that last night is going to come back and bite me in the arse, so I may as well just get it out of the way and confess now.
So here it goes.
Oh, and sorry the post is so long, but I am far too hungover to do the ‘several posts for the price of one’ blog, where I break everything up into shorter pages. But I have put in some lovely pictures to keep you entertained. If this isn’t enough, you’ll just have to take some Ritalin and focus…or I don’t know, read some now and finish the rest later. Anyway, here it goes…
This story starts as does every good story…we were drinkin’. It was a Saturday, HarryPotter and I still weren’t talking, but I couldn’t bare sitting around the house not talking, so I suggested we go to the pub. Plus there was another match at Ibrox and I desperately wanted to get out of the neighbourhood. He agreed that a pub in the West End was a good idea. Roger was phoned, or else it would be HarryPotter and I not talking in a pub. Roger joined us post haste.
We sat drinking in awkward silence for a while, Roger and HarryPotter half watching the match on the big telly. There was an advert for PAUL on the telly, and I made an admittedly snippy comment about wanting to see that movie, ‘except that some one got into a strop keeping me from seeing said film last night.’ Said stroppy person came back with an equally snippy comment, ‘I didn’t stop you from going.’ We volleyed back and forth for a bit with quips, before Roger spoke up and said, ‘That film’s not out until Monday. You couldn’t have gone last night. I don’t know why you’re griping.’
So, now we weren’t talking to Roger either. How dare he point out the futility in our argument. Roger quickly tired of the silence so he rang his mates, who showed up post haste. One of his friends will from hence forth be known as Drinkin’ Stew. The moment this guy arrives, everything turns into a football chant, drinking binge, get your willies and bums out because it’s going to be a wild hooligan night. You know the type of guy. Either you’re drinking with him, or you’re going home annoyed. There’s no tea-totalling around Drinkin’ Stew.
One of the many problems with guys like Drinkin’ Stew: there’s no staying in one place. One pub becomes terribly uninteresting very quickly, or a kebab is needed, or there’s ‘a great club just opened up. This means that most of the night is stumbling from one place to another, which gives ample opportunity for Drinkin’ Stew to get in a fight with some poor schmuck who happens to be wearing the wrong colours, have a funny accent, or ‘has a mug that looks like it just sucked off a goat.’ His words not mine.
Despite being hideously drunk myself (I replaced talking to HarryPotter with slamming back pints), I realised that it wasn’t even 10pm, and it was far too early for all this mayhem. At this rate, Drinkin’ Stew would have us all in the clink by the end of the night, so I suggested that HarryPotter and I leg it, and Roger decided to follow.
We went back to the flat. There was loads of booze left over from the St Andrews trip, so HarryPotter suggested a drinking game in which you watch Lord of the Rings and drink every time a hobbit says something slightly gay-ish. We were even further slashed within the first ten minutes of the film. Roger next decided that it would be better to put on The Wizard of Oz, with the sound down and Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon playing as the sound track. Now, I don’t if it was the seven shots of gin that I’d had in less than thirty minutes, but Dark Side of the Moon actually plays along and tells the story of The Wizard of Oz. It’s weird. Try it. If it doesn’t work, drink seven shots of gin then try it again.
After Roger set up the Dark Wizard of the Moon thingy, he promptly passed out on the sofa. I was sitting on the floor and HarryPotter was on the sofa with Roger. I stood up (I can’t for the life of me remember why I stood up, but I did), and HarryPotter grabbed my hand and pulled me down onto the sofa next to him.
Then, in very slurred speech he said, ‘I’m going to man up and say it. I’m madly in love with you. Why can’t you just see that, damn it!’
If this had been a sober moment, it would have been a major big deal. Instead, I grabbed his hand, put it under my shirt on my boob and said, ‘Is this enough of a consolation prize?’
Yes, I am genuinely the world’s biggest twat.
He then, with his other hand, he reached over and very softly put it on the side of my face. He started to pull me towards him; I closed my eyes waiting for him to come in for the kiss…when he fucking pushed my head down towards his crotch.
Now. You may be thinking, ‘Yes, this is an embarrassing evening. My god woman! How can you stand to talk about something so humiliating?’ Well, wait it gets better.
I can’t believe I’m going to type the next series of events. I may even come back later and take them off the internet. But here it goes for now:
What did I do when he so lovingly pushed my head down for a blowy? Did I slap him and call him a ‘Cad’? Did I tell him off for treating me like a piece of meat? No, I pulled his trousers and pants down to his knees.
Did I mention that I have a problem with just falling in the sack with guys who show the smallest bit of interest? Well, the drink doesn’t help any.
So, I decided to give him a bit of a helping hand before participating in any oral activities. Kind of a pre-show if you will. Not a good idea. He went off and nearly got me in the eye.
I look up to see HarryPotter completely passed out. Then I look over to one side. I completely forgot that Roger was still on the sofa, and he had his trousers down to his knees, and was pointing at his crotch.
I told him to ‘Fuck off’, and I stumbled into my room and locked the door.
Several hours later I woke up desperately needing a glass of water and a paracetamol, and what do I find as I stumble into the kitchen? HarryPotter and Roger curled up together on the sofa, trousers still around their knees, morning woodies saying hello, and HarryPotter with a giant cum stain up the front of his shirt. They must have just passed out on the sofa and then curled up together. Relatively innocent, but my God, I wish my camera wasn’t broken.
I got my water and my paracetamol, and decided that despite the massive hangover, I really didn’t want to go to bed. I desperately wanted to see their reaction when they woke up.
The kitchen and the lounge used to be separate (you can see the beam where the wall was), but it’s now open planned. So, I slammed a cupboard door which made them both jump, stretch, roll back over, open their eyes, wake up, discover the position they were in, discover they had no trousers on, jump up, discover their trousers were still around their knees, and then fall over. They both quickly pulled up their trous, and stood up very, very confused.
Roger looks at HarryPotter’s shirt and says ‘What the fuck!’
HarryPotter (I think more for balance than for aggression) steps towards Roger; Roger takes this as a homoerotic act and punches HarryPotter in the face. HarryPotter hits the floor like a sack of bricks.
Okay, I’ll admit. I laughed, but I didn’t want HarryPotter to get the shit kicked out of him either, so I came around and stepped into the middle of them. They saw me, realised for the first time I was in the room; you could see the wheels turning. It was like a film was playing across their face; pictures from the evening before flashing back. Suddenly they remembered that nothing had happened between the two of them, and that I was the sexual raison d’etre.
Roger bent down to help HarryPotter up and said, ‘Sorry Pal.’ HarryPotter rubbed his jaw and said, ‘Nae bother’ and stood up. I’ll never understand men. I’d be livid if someone punched me in the face. I wouldn’t just forgive them automatically, then again, maybe HarryPotter wanted to punch Roger, but Roger was quicker. I have no idea how their minds work.
Roger went home to wile away his hangover. After he left, it was just HarryPotter and I, and the comfort level dropped. With everything from the night before flooding back, it all got extremely embarrassing – for both of us.
I so didn’t want to talk about it, but at the same we needed to talk about it. I didn’t want to talk about the whole attempted blow job thing. No, I was happy to let that pass. I wanted to talk about what he said, ‘I’m madly in love with you.’
I really wasn’t sure how I was going to broach him being madly in love with me, but I figured that I’d give it a go. So I said those four dredded words, ‘We needed to talk.’ We sat down at the kitchen table, but before I could say anything he asked, ‘Did we have a threesome?’
What the fuck! Evidently he didn’t quite remember the night before. And now I was going to have to talk about Mons Meg going off.
I said, ‘No indeed’ so quickly to his question that there was no doubting the severity of my voice.
He then looked down at his shirt, his eyes got really wide then he said, ‘Holy fuck. I remember. I am so sorry. I am so so sorry.’ He then said, ‘How’d we get to that? All I remember is watching Lord of the Rings, then the next thing I remember…’ He looks down then says, ‘well, you know…I am so sorry.’
He evidently didn’t remember saying that he loved me. It must have been a drunken moment. Like when you get sloshed and tell all your mates you love them. Or when a guy’s drunk and will say anything to get your head in his crotch.
I said, ‘I have no idea. One of those crazy nights I guess. But listen. It didn’t mean a thing. It was just two friends on the lash. That’s all.’
He agreed and we both relaxed. I decided that my bed was calling, so I headed back to my room, but before I got into the hallway HarryPotter asked, ‘How’d Roger’s trousers get pulled down?’
‘He’s an assumptive pervert,’ is all I said, and I went back to bed.
…25 days to go.