Wednesday, June 20, 2007
Why am I still single?
I went to Coq d'Argent last night for an industry shin-dig.
As I had already been ill, and had taken co-codamol a few hours earlier, I got drunk quickly, At one point I was holding a Merlot in one hand and a Champagne in the other, telling everyone in a very posh totty voice: "Oh I love a balanced diet" - finding myself so funny that I went round telling the joke over and over and laughing at it each time. Yes, I am that sad.
Cute? That should have been the end of it. But because I had flirted with a waiter earlier, he kept refilling my champers glass until I ended up falling quickly into imbecility.
I told a work colleague that if he stopped smoking and became a christian, I would do him for a tenner.
I cuddled a former employee of mine and said: "Darling, I am an urban cougar and you're on my list of fresh meat." (apparently)
I got chatted up by a handsome journo from The Sun, but all I could muster in reply by then was: "How did you break your nose? Did you play rugby?" and that was the end of that brief romance.
I then started to speak French drunkenly the entire evening, to the French waiters, to my French friend, in fact - to everyone. Eventually I stopped when one of the waiters that I was holding onto (because the floor was moving), said: "I am Portuguese."
I then tried to speak Portuguese to him.
I don't speak Portuguese at all.
He brought me some water.
Refreshed slightly, I started onto the dancefloor and staggered and reeled like an utter moron, kissed a girl - it was her fault, she basically stuck her face into mine when I was intending to air-kiss her goodbye. Deciding it was time to run far far away.... I rushed to the toilets... and vomited into my handbag in the loos at Coq d'Argent.
I had gone ostensibly for a pee, and a nice sit-down. I put my handbag on the floor next to the toilet.
Sitting there I felt a sudden surge of projectile vomit, and turned around quickly - well, I slumped randomly so I was facing the wrong way for the first hurl. It was then that I thought - in for a penny, in for a pound, and continued to blow chunks in that general direction as lifting myself up from the position I had fallen into was too hard.
Half of the champagne-fuelled spew was bouncing off the walls, running all over the floor around my knees and knickers, which were around my ankles as I had been in mid-pee when the chunder train pulled into the station. So I am kneeling in my own vom and piss in one of the poshest restaurants in the UK, shouting for huey over my bag and coat sleeve.
To cap it all, when I had sprayed myself all over with perfume to mask the smell, I fell out of the restaurant like a stinking drunken twat, managing to find my way down in the lifts, and then vommed in the street while a pr lady held my hair back off my face. She even took me home while I sobbed in her taxi saying Im Sooo sorrrrrreeeee all the way home.
I am so classy.