The Walk Of Shame.

So I just got home from Charlie Brown's - a walk across The Vale that I've taken many a time through the years, except today I wasn't buzzing from a night of card-playing debauchery, or stumbling home having crashed out with the gang in the lounge, or having spent the night secrectly spooning with Charlie Brown (back in the day), or even strolling back home giggling to myself about The Cats' very own brand of late night fun - rather, today's walk was a walk of shame.

I don't know what I was thinking. Weller's one of the best guys I know, and he's still in love with his ex. And I'm pretty sure I'm still in love with my ex. That, and the last time I did the walk of shame, it was from that very house, but the room next to his. Disaster much?

It's just gone midday now, and I've been awake since 8 - when Weller left to go to work. After I wrote in last night, I got us both a drink (well, I found a bottle of whiskey) and we spent the night getting drunk and fooling around - which was fun. Then we got some sleep, and I awoke to a massive hangover, and to find he was suited and booted for work, and we had to have the awkward light-of-day reality check - which was not fun.

He brought me up a cup of tea, and we sat on the bed not really saying anything, but looking at each other occasionally in a "this is weird" sort of way, which wasn't helped by the fact he had taken a shower, cleaned up and was in a suit, and I still smelt of whiskey and cigs (and sex) and was naked but for a bedsheet that I'd embarrasedly wrapped around myself. I broke the silence by making a bad joke "Well I blame Peep Show. I reckon it's an uncontrollable aphrodesiac for all us disillusioned 20-somethings." At which he laughed and we chatted a while, both silently acknowledging that this was a mistake. A fun mistake, but one that neither of us wanted to repeat.

So we hugged, he playfully nagged at me for making him so hungover, and we left it at "see you at the pub". So he left, I sipped on my cup of tea, lit up a cigarette, and sat and quietly laughed at myself.

I went back to sleep, woke up at around midday, and thought right, it's a gorgeous day, I've managed to escape last night's shenanigans hangover-free, and screw it - it's quite funny so I put on my dress, and went to the bathroom to wash up and put some makeup on. But, literally as my hand reached for the doorknob, I heard someone flush the loo - so I ran back to Weller's room, shut the door as fast as I could, and hid behind it. I suddenly realised it was Charlie Brown, who I had assumed was at work. I then spent the next hour creeping around Weller's room trying to find all my clothes and pretend I wasn't there, and waiting to hear a door slam, or footsteps down the stairs, or any sign that the coast was clear.

Eventually, I heard Charlie Brown close his bedroom door and I grabbed my stuff, put my shades on, and ran down the stairs and out the front door, slamming it behind me. I speed-walked all the way down the road, not daring to turn my head in case Charlie Brown looked out his window and saw me. When I turned off their road, I burst out laughing and spent the rest of the walk home feeling ridiculous.

Oh, the shame.

I think I might need to invest in one of these.

Foreplay With No Follow Up. Oh, Wait..

I did something stupid tonight.

Well, I did something stupid about a half hour ago, and I'm probably going to do something stupid again within the next few hours..and possibly again in the morning..

So I went for afternoon drinks with the girls tonight (Charolastra No.1 and Pickled Lily), where we played cards in the sweltering heat, drank several pitchers of cocktails, and talked very loudly about men and sex for the majority of the night. We originally met to celebrate me signing the promoter's contract at a club, with a subtext of checking out a fit bartender I remember working at this pub. Who, it turns out, is the manager. And who spent the night doing sexy eye contact with me. And don't get me wrong, I am the world's biggest eye-contact-flirting fan, to me there is nothing sexier - but it's just such deja-vu. The pub where I met The Cats (our pub), had a manager who I had sexy eye-contact-flirting with for at least a year, and believe me - as much of a turn on, there is absolutely no payoff. It's like foreplay, with no follow up. Massively unsatisfying.

So, this yummy bar manager and I eyed each other up and went through the sexy "stolen glances" flirt all night, which got me massively in the mood, but as experience has taught me - no pay off. So I left the girls, went home, and got a text from Weller (Charlie Brown's flatmate, one of The Cats, who I've always had a bit of a crush on, but he's had a girlfriend for the last few years - who I love. They broke up a few months ago, and he's quietly heartbroken. We went out last week, all of us, and we had a sneaky snog at stupid o clock in the morning, but nothing's been said since.)

I got his text at about midnight, while I was on the bus home from Camden. Bearing in mind (just to quickly attempt to justify my behaviour) by this point I'd had several cocktails, several different spirits, on an empty stomach - and Hotty McBarman had been turning me on slowly all night..

"Hey you, just watching telly in my room and Peep Show came on so I thought of you. Any chance you're around The Vale and fancy watching it with me? x"

So, put very simply, this is how I ended up in Weller's bed, at 1 in the morning, with no clothes on, smoking a post-coital cigarette and typing this while he sleeps next to me, with his arm sloppily wrapped around my waist. I'm quite happily tipsy, so I'm not feeling any guilt at this point, but I know it will come.. especially because I am so very aware that Charlie Brown is asleep next door.

But before the guilt starts to kick in, I'm going to go and wake Weller up for round 2. Well, after I text Charolastra No.1, and maybe raid the drinks cabinet and make myself a little whiskey smooth. Fuck it, lets make it a double.

And they told me; a man should be faithful, and walk when not able, and fight til the end ..but I'm only human.

Michael Jackson died today.

Waking up this morning it felt like when Princess Diana died - every tv channel, radio station, newspaper, Facebook status, was filled with tributes. Except there is something more tragic about his death, as there was his life, I suppose. This is definitely one of those historical days people will talk about for years to come - "Where were you when Michael Jackson died?"

I can't write anything appropriate really, except that I think everyone feels a bit shaken up, and strangely bereaved. I feel mildly humbled, but I'm not sure why. Anyway, however he'll be remembered (it's weird talking about him in the past tense - he's one of those figures you just assume will always be there), I'm pretty sure everyone out there has at least one Michael Jackson song that means something important to them, that they connect with some part of their life, even if they never realised it.

I, for one, have lots. But this song I connect so intrinsically with my childhood. Like all the best songs it's one of sadness, and hope. Weirdly enough, it was the song on my First Holy Communion video, and I remember a period of time getting home from school, sitting on the floor in front of my tiny telly and crappy vcr, and listening to it over and over, until I knew all the words. It was the first song I ever taught myself to play on the piano. I've forgotten it now.



I know it sounds fucking twee but I don't care -

Rest in peace, Michael Jackson. I'm really sad that you're dead.

In Case I Never Say It

It's been a rough couple of months.

It really, really has.

I've had my heart broken in every possible way this year, and again I'm left trying with all my might not to brick up new, stronger, armour. Having Pickled Lily in my life is a lot of what keeps me from barricading myself in. Always has. If I did build up the protective defences too much, and shut myself off, we wouldn't have the same connection. Our whole relationship is fundamentally based on being exactly who we are, in a quiet comfortable unsaid way, if that makes sense, and the moment I shut her out, I shut out parts of myself, even to myself.

If there's even one person out there who brings out the most real parts of who you are, it's probably best to have them around. So as such, this is just my little personal note to myself, in case I ever forget. And to her, in case I never say it.

A Hot Girl With A Bad Laugh

This one's just a quickie, another dedication to Pickled Lily - I spent all of yesterday with her, making Charolastra No.1 a 'Welcome Home' banner (she's moving back to London today)and something about spending almost 12 hours together in a confined space made us both a little hysterical, so we spent most of the last few hours talking about bollocks (the evolutionary importance of avoiding 'clusters' of things)and watching stupid youtube videos. Which is why I'm posting a stupid youtube video of a Family Guy scene I was trying to describe as an example of Pickled Lily being a hot girl with a bad laugh..

And I Am Re-Living..

Found some more scribblings from my past - this one from 2006, and I remember very clearly writing this while living with Pickled Lily and the Stig, when I was in the 3rd of my trilogy of disasterous relationships (Ash, Mystery and..) It's pretty defining really, in terms of how I felt most of that year! I remember sitting alone, in Pickled Lily's room, smoking and drinking tea with lemon, and staring at my reflection for at least an hour. Waiting for him to get home.

-------------


And I am lacking
In self confidence, which holds me back continuously.
In courage at this tumultuous time,
Where I should be strapping up for battle.
And I am having
Trouble expressing myself to you, even now
For whatever reason
..my paranoia of feeling judged.

And I am feeling
Inadequate and frustrated,
And so much better than this.
Self-consciousness is dangerous for such a critical nature.

And I am scared
Of the past and it's remnants
And my tendency of repeating myself,
Of my need for keeping up appearances.
And I am scared
Of my own fears.
And how they (secretly) reflect on me.
And I am reeling
From the last few years having taken it's toll
Despite my best efforts & armour.
I so rarely write or read these days.

And I am sick
Of compromising and placating
And seemingly fighting for everything.
All is fair in love and war.

And I am thankful
For my sense of humour
And for the few that I love -
The only real mirror I'll ever need, or believe
Particularly at times like these, when I get defeatist
And self-involved, and forget
That I am happy
In my own skin.

-------------

Jewburg

So the world of music is pulling me back in.

I've had a rough and tumble ride with with music my entire life, and I thought I was done with it. But it never seems to be done with me. I've stumbled into becoming an event promoter for a club in Camden, and I am loving it. Me and an old friend newly-back-in-town, Jewburg, have started a little promotions company because he had a contact at a club and we thought we'd see if we could set up a night there, which turned into a monthly night, which turned into a monthly 3-band-1dj event, which turned into us becoming promoters. Our first night (the trial) is on July 14th, and if that goes well we get a regular monthly slot.

So the last few weeks have been a bit of a nightmare with booking bands, and drawing up contracts, and sorting out flyer design - not to mention nearly coming to blows with Jewburg about the name of the night, and the logo, and the bands, and - well, pretty much everything. Turns out my new partner (and old friend) is mildly misogynistic, if unknowingly, and above all he does not like to share power (glimpses of the Dark Lord.. I'm sure I remember Gandalf saying that at some point).

On a separate note, I've discovered Darcy never went to Greenland.

I'm not entirely sure what this means, or how I feel about it, but as with everything Darcy-related, I'm just going to ignore this new information and get on with the millions of things I have to do at the moment.

A Full English Breakfast Will Cure What Ails You

Went out with some of The Cats last night, and feel fucking appalling this afternoon.

I always feel fucking appalling after a night with The Cats, because of the very nature of our meetings. When we meet we drink too much, smoke too much, talk too much (shite), do too many drugs, stay up too late, are too honest with one another, do too many shots - we are excessive, to say the least. And I will always feel fucking appalling the afternoon after (I say the afternoon after rather than the morning after because the morning after is generally still the night before, if you catch my drift).

But it's funny, I don't get the guilts when I've been out with The Cats, the hangover doesn't fill me with a sense of regret or depression. Because partying with The Cats - the punishment is worth the crime.

As I type, the Flatmate is at the shops buying us the ingredients for a full English Breakfast (I'm a firm believer that in any circumstance, the full English Breakfast will cure what ails you) and some ciggies - turns out the Flatmate isn't in fact a prick. He's a fantastic guy. It was just hidden under a layer of prick.

So I'm working on the formula to the perfect hangover cure. I think I have it - today is the perfect opportunity to try it on for size;

1 pint of fresh orange juice (no less, must push through the acidic burn)
full English Breakfast (with lots of salt to soak up booze)
soluble Vitamin C drink (like Alka Seltzer, but yummy)
Half pint of semi skimmed milk sipped slowly (gives you the shits a bit, but helps settle stomach)
2 paracetamol (after food)
A cup of fizzy-good-make-feel-nice (Alka-Seltzer)
A vitamin tablet
Then (and only then) you have the first fag of the day, with a lovely milky sugary cup of tea.

Hopefully I've cracked it.