OK hilarious. Friday: what goes on snogathon tour stays on snogathon tour. That's my story and I'm sticking to it. Can’t remember anything anyway, except for bouncing on Ramone Allones shoulders - all 6 foot 6 of him, plus my 5 foot 8, bouncing on his shoulders like a rag doll, dodgy. Squeaked a lot of deplorable shoe.
Right. Saturday, random. But funny. The Ant and I went to a YSL girls’ boozy tea party at the Westcliff Hotel for high tea. Our side of the table was definitely the loudest. Free champagne and stuff, and ate everybody else’s cucumber sandwiches. (Let it be known, we have a healthy appetite, and some people don’t care much for that, so we munched them anyway.)
Drank champers and Jameson and wanted to have sex with middle-aged man from Brazil on business, but he had to catch a plane. I met him on the ride up to the Polo Lounge on the top of the hill. Paunchy and 45 plus, but so sexy I really, really, really had an unnatainable attraction towards the fellow. I don’t even look at men over 50, but this guy was so suave, so debonair, I would’ve shtoinked him rotten had he not had to catch the next flight to Rio de Janeiro. One tends to look for sex in the strangest places when one is always on fire due to one's new-found virginism.
Anyway, we got drunk, and The Ant headed to a braai and I headed… to a mate’s place where I operated a power drill, played a piano and divulged in a drunken game of 30 Seconds. Broken Foot Guy from ice skating two weekends ago was there, now sporting a Bionic Boot. Afterwards, went home and crashed. Even turned down a Colony night. Thank fuck.
Sunday was pretty funny. C, N, The Ant and a couple of other punters headed to the Inanda Polo. Sure we watched horses, but not really, let's be honest. A bee stung me on my knee (What's UP with that? Bee's stinging me the whole time?) And we also drank champagne with Ramone Allones, and squashed divots back into the lawn, spilled wine everywhere, that sort of thing.
N has created a monster by introducing me to Essex accents, which we spoke in for quite the most part of the afternoon. When I find an accent I like, I don't stop, especially when not sober. I’ve done Australian, Spanish, Corne & Twakkie, Russian, and now Essex England is in the mix.
“My bruvver, muvver, farver and I are going to Ibeefa to take X, because we aren’t bovvered, and we need a breaver."
N started it, because she worked with a chick who ‘needed her teef whitened’ at work. Again, Gad.
Everyone went home, but C and I, who hadn't had quite enough, so we headed to the polo afterparty with some cahorts. Got massively hammered. Last night. The Sabbath. It was bigger than Friday for heaven's sake. Shite, and is my head a-pounding at the minute or what. We both came right, and it was cool, because the people we came right with are mates-cum-previous snogs. Bless. The coppers stopped us outside my flat, but we managed to sweet talk them out of thinking we'd done anything wrong. Hectic.
Anyway. Fuck. Today is going to be a ball ache, good God. C has already smsed to inform me she won't be going into work.