Thursday 22nd October
Can I get a collective high five? If only there was a digital way to press your hand to the screen and have the satisfaction of feeling a billion palms virtually slapping flesh. Your boy only went and got some. Oh yes he did. Well, by ‘get some’ I mean he slobbered over a girl’s chops. There was no downstairs action – although we were on the ground floor.
Brilliant. That was, brilliant.
So last night Jack and I went on a lad’s night – which basically is exactly the same as a weekend night, except I had to sneak out the house, he wore a shirt, and I un-tucked mine. That’s a joke I would NEVER un-tuck my shirt*. We went to this pub in town and sat around nursing a couple of halves. My palms were sweating in case the staff realised Jack wasn’t 28, and that we were probably using his older (and bearded) brother’s I.D. Thank fuck for the credit crunch no one gave a shit; establishments need the money illegal or otherwise. After we were suitably tanked on warm pissy beer we went on to the local ‘Rock Club’ as my mother puts it. Gross. Sometimes when I’m really cold I remember that she calls it that so I can be sick down myself and warm up.
Fortunately last night was rather mild so I didn’t have to do that, instead we half fell down the stairs of the club – I imagine – and were immediately accosted by a bevy of half naked girls – I imagine – then given free drinks by the owner and shit loads of cash and diamonds – I imagine – and finally my mum turned up and did a lap dance – I imagine so am clearly sick in the head.
In reality we slumped into a booth and talked about the girls at our School. After a while Jack went to the bar to get us more drinks and ended up chatting to this blonde girl who looked a bit like Fearne Cotton on crack. Under the terrible impression that she was at all attractive he brought her over to where I was sitting and made me watch while she squeaked and spat. I’m sorry Miss. Piggy, but I genuinely don’t give a flying fuck about where you bought your clothes, or which awful band you saw at Reading this year. Please, please go away.
I made my escape as soon as their drinks were about 1mm less than full, saying I’d queue early to get the next round in since the bar was always really busy. Complete lie. The place was basically empty, but they were clearly too involved in a thrilling discussion about the lining of Miss. Piggy’s bag to give a shit. So off I went. The only other person waiting to get served was a girl with longish brown hair. Fit. I mean, I genuinely can’t remember anything else about her, but trust me, she’s fit. She made a joke about the logo on my T-shirt, I told her she should drink vodka because it’s less fattening. I laughed, she laughed, job done. Slopping their drinks on the happy couple’s table I went back to sit with Amy (that is her name) and her friends – she was playing third wheel to boyfriend and girlfriend Sam and Ruth – and pissed myself with laughter for three hours.
After a while her mates left so we went to try and find Kermit and his girl, but they’d disappeared so we stayed for a bit longer before realising it was 2am and we both had to go to School the next day (she’s year above. Nice). I walked her to her bus stop, and in the full gaze of a fat old man who smelt of piss, and a screechy couple having a drunken row, we kissed. It was fucking amazing. She’s amazing. I would probably marry her. I wouldn’t marry her, but if she made me marry her before we had sex, then I would do it. And probably be OK with being married to her – for about 5 years at least. FUCK she’s so fit.
I got her number and I’m staring at my phone right now – I haven’t texted her or anything since last night – I’ve drafted a couple but they all seem incredibly lame. Would’ve asked Jack at School but a. he’s a complete twat, b. I’m pissed off with him for Miss Piggy, and c. he wasn’t around today so I couldn’t. Hmm. I think it’s fair to say that I am moderately freaking out.
*Also a joke, I’ve never worn a shirt out in my entire life.
