Saturday 29th November – Groan. My first proper hangover since I got here and even the smallest movement is having repercussions. I’ve really got to calm this drinking down. If my body was a temple, my temple would be a Threshers.
If it wasn’t bad enough feeling this close to actual death when you’re sharing a room with four other people, it’s particularly horrific enduring a nasty case of the beer-shits when you share a bathroom with over fifty more. I was in there nearly an hour waiting for the place to empty so I could leg it and avoid being associated with the smell, by which time I needed to go back in again. Worst of all, I forgot to take my phone in with me so it was a double-whammy of misery.
On the plus side, I think this upgrade to my social life is helping me lose a little weight. I’m not eating half as much as I used to and I’m pretty sure walking between pub and club still counts as exercise. If I stand in the right light, suck in my breath, tense my stomach and angle myself correctly, I’ve almost got the beginnings of a two pack!
Well ain’t that just fan-fucking-tastic. I fell asleep at the beach and now I’ve got a bright red back to go with my bright white belly. I look like a giant flabby crab-stick.
I’ve spent most of the day at St. Kilda with fellow drink-induced sufferers, Nancy and Steve, because their idea of sleeping through the vodka-sweats and simultaneously getting a tan seemed like a good use of time. It wasn’t. Tagging along with a pair of over-enthusiastic love-birds when you’re already feeling a bit of a third-wheel is never good for your self-esteem. They had laid out their towels just far enough away to make it clear they didn’t want to talk, and then shared a single pair of headphones, private giggling and each others tongues all afternoon. Didn’t talk to me once. When I woke up, they were gone and I was crispy. Rude.
After yesterday’s brief burst of euphoria and the subsequent piercing, it would be fair to say that today I have crashed back down to Earth with a bump. My body hurts to touch and, despite spending most of the day surrounded by people, I’ve only spoken a handful of words all day. Maybe a few more if you include the ones I groaned down the toilet bowl first thing. Most of them were said to Bev just before we left for the beach.
“If you’re gonna come with us, don’t forget to go to the loo first!”
On our last visit to St Kilda, she’d got caught short and had to run into the ocean for an emergency wee. That would be disgusting enough, but she had forgotten to sit down when she got there. No one wants to see someone stood in ankle-deep water with that look of concentration on their face, believe me. Her mumbled response, as she burrowed herself further beneath her sheets was “What are you, the Piss Police?” No one has spoken to me since, so it’s no wonder I feel a little glum.
Tonight will change all that. We’re off to a massive club on the outskirts of Melbourne and it sounds EPIC. According to the fliers it is “The Biggest Party On The Southern Hemisphere” and I can’t wait. The girls started getting ready the moment they got up (about 3pm) so with any luck they’ll be ready by ten, and Rachel has helped me put together an outfit which she says makes me look ‘more fashionable than retarded’. I might even make an effort with my hair, which would be the first time I’ve bothered since we got here.
I AM. FUMING.
I only popped next door for a few minutes and I practically downed that vodka. How the fuck can they now be asleep? Are they TRYING to piss me off? When I left them they were finishing their eye make-up, and now they’re sprawled across their beds snoring the fucking roof down? I don’t know what to do. They won’t wake up! I’m more frustrated than a blind lesbian at a fish market. I was really looking forward to tonight, and I’ve half a mind to go without them.
Not cool, girls. Not cool at all.
To: “My Great British Contacts” Group
Subject: Bloody women!
Date: Sat 29 Nov – 23:55
Excuse me everyone, but I need to rant and I have no one else to talk to.
Bev and Rachel are OFFICIALLY trying my patience. And before you say it, no. Patience is NOT a virtue. Hurrying the fuck up would be a virtue. Operating at a slower speed than all other humans is just plain rude. And if I hear “It’s better to arrive late than to arrive ugly” one more time I’m liable to say something I’ll regret. Like, “It doesn’t matter how many times you polish a turd, IT STILL LOOKS LIKE A TURD!”
It is so frustrating. Rachel tells me, ‘having beauty on the inside don’t get you free drinks’, but I hope it at least makes someone less of an arse. All that preperation time, and for what? Two straps and a belt? Girls, just because you can get your clothes to do up, it doesn’t mean they fit! Personally, I like to avoid anything that makes me look fat (like scales, photographs or clothes designed for toddlers), but they both seem perfectly happy tottering about like badly packed sausages and sporting more camel toe than actual camels.
Wow. I’m gonna get into sooo much trouble for sending this, but I don’t care. I’ve had enough. And as the bacon said to the ketchup, I’M ON A ROLL!
You see, I can’t bite my lip any longer. They have been irritating me the whole time we’ve been away. There’s not been any single event that’s caused it, how can there be when I never see them conscious anyway, but all the little things add up when you’ve been sharing a room for weeks. Like, why are they incapable of applying mascara with their mouths closed? Or of going to the toilet without a follow-up performance review? And WHY do they need BOTH hands when they’re using their phones on hands-free mode? Of course, I’m assuming that it’s just these two and not all women, because if it was I’d expect more hetero boys to turn gay in defence. I used to love the fact they had no filter between their brains and their mouths, but now that their voices are inescapable and constant it just turns my stomach. Over the last two days I’ve learnt more about ‘women’s issues’ than any boy has any right to know and trust me, they don’t want to know. To be woken up by someone singing, “Gotta go change my jam rag!” or questioning why their “flow has gone a bit flemmy,” is just not on. Pass me the barf-bag and pipe down princess. Tell me, do most girls go out for pink champagne to toast the day their cycles syncronised? I’m not even joking. Menstruation is not a laughing matter, period.
Love Kev x
I’ll reply to your emails later.
Been drinking alone again. Not at that club I was meant to be at, that’s a whole two buses and a ten minute walk away and I sure as shit ain’t going into no club on my own. Popped back next-door instead, where at least I know Northern Nina behind the bar. Then SHE went and pissed me off too.
“Did Hamish say goodbye? Say, who was the cute blond he left with?”
I was completely lost for words and just sat there making noises like a Tellytubby.
Nina pulled a face that said, Oh fuck, he didn’t know, and hurried to the other side of the bar to clean some glasses.
According to the girl on reception, Hamish checked out yesterday with Irish Karen and, from the description, that other nameless bender I saw mincing about the hostel in gay vests. Seems the wee Scottish f-f-fucker has come to terms with his sexuality after all, and he didn’t even say goodbye. That blond was cute and it seems even the vicar’s son had noticed. Rumour is they bumped into each other in the toilets and hit it off straight away. Yeah, I bet they fucking did.
Ironically, this means that even Hamish’s disgusting pancakes got more action with him than I did. I just got a peck on the cheek in a fire-escape. They got tossed in the kitchen.