i met royalty last night

So training yesterday was intense. Super intense. To the point where I’d replaced cappuccino for full on espresso. (Two sips of ephedrine that tastes like brewed steroids basically) and after that, we all went out to smash a couple of hardcore alcoholic drinks in our faces.

Taking the tube in rush hour – especially the Victoria Line – is also, like, super intense. Everything right now is super intense. Life, right now, is super intense. Luckily this town is so goddamn beautiful (like, that’s where I get off. London and Germans. It’s a simple equation. Oh and espresso coffee).

Anyways, we freshen up after a long hard day at the office and stand in people’s armpits. Cos that’s what you do on public trains in London during rush hour. Hit Covent Garden gagging for an ice cold somethingorother.

Go to the Bunker (there’s an umlaut on the u there, but can’t be fucked to navigate the symbol thingie on my very normal Microsoft laptop right now – God how I miss my Mac! The machine with my cartoon maker and all that on it….sigh)

Order great big frothing pitchers of Long Island Ice Tea. And get beautifully flushed in this bunker-like Eastern Bloc pub of a place – God it was heaven – all that was missing was factory workers beating at the tables with their fists. And then...

I met Prince Harry.*

Like I couldn’t be loving Bri’in anymore right now. I then had all the luck of sitting next to fucking Royalty whilst drinking Mother’s Milk right next to a Buckingham Palace bone fide inhabitant in some bunker pub in East (or is it West? Or perhaps it’s neither?) London.

The photos with HRH Hazza* were fun.

Although he tried to charge me five quid.

Had pictures with him* and everything. He blushing like virgin and looking all ginger and poncy and shirty, and me pointing at him, beaming in the photos like I’d just won the British Lo’erry. Or like someone had just told me that I’m related to Richard Branson and I’m privy to his shares or somefing.

(‘Where in Australia are you from?’ That’s what His Highness* says. Adelaide mate. I mean, your royal bluebloodedness or whatever.)

Anyway, we drank enough to be thrown into the bender department – me, the Irish, the Scottish, the German, the Spanish and the Russian conglomerate of Global Village socialisation.

Then some more ‘Hendricks’ g ‘n t’s at the hotel later. Hendricks g ‘n t’s are a bit of a find – take out the lemon and bang in a slice of cucumber. This simple exchange, you have no idea what a refreshing difference it makes to a classic drink! It’s like summer in the UK! Oh wait.

God. Today is more intense training. If not the worst yet. On a hangover. At least I’m not alone in my pain. And thinking of English cucumbers and Germans wienerschnitzels.

But Prince Harry* and I have touched skin and exchanged pleasantries. Watch out Chelsy Davy, I have new purple shoes. And they’re impressive:*Turns out it wasn’t Prince Harry, son of Diana. It was Roger, son of Blythe. What a let down. But he’d had at least 7 people approach him in his life to ask whether he was – I wasn’t the first – talk about a body double opportunity - so it wasn’t just all Long Island Ice Tea Goggles talking. But perhaps a little bit of wishful thinking. Maybe. Sort of, Wha Eva.

PS: Don’t be a dumbass like me and keep your clocks the same time as South Africa. Woke up at 7:30am, hung and in a panic. When it was 6:30 and I could've slept a lot longer. Arrgh.

But it’s all grand. My Irish friend says that everything is practically ‘grand.’ But what I need it a new word for ‘this hangover is possibly the least grand thing ever.’