Glass in the Ass
This is the somewhat elaborate tale of how Sunday the 14th December 2008, a night which started as general revelry and adolescent angst, ended in chaos and mild bloodshed.
It all started at 8.30pm. Upon the realisation that 'all men are w*nkers', best friend Amy and I decided to fill our evening with a range of exciting activities in order to distract our minds away from the pressures of shoddy-relationship dilemmas. This process of ignoration towards any responsibility concerning men-folk began with a simple bottle of wine.
Unfortunately however, the notion of "ah go on, just a little glass" rapidly evolved itself into "ah go on, just another bottle", which soon became "ahhh, f*ck it, another keg".
Needless to say, we soon found ourselves inebriated. Suddenly, a night-out seemed to be on the cards.
So, after donning party attire and lazy make-up, we hopped into our 'luxury' transportation unit (an irritable taxi driver's nissan primera), and headed for the town centre. Before long, a selection of young gentlemen offered themselves as dance-partners for Amy and myself, who, unfortunately, refused their service under the pretence that they were 'probably %£$!s'.
It didn't take a great deal of dancing before Amy and I fancied 'a nice sit down'. Unfortunately for me however, in my drunken state, I managed to completely overlook the fact that the couch in the corner of the room was completely littered with broken glass. Mid-conversation, I found myself recumbent atop this glassy setee and somehow managed to become rather comfortable - that is until my friend pointed out the trickle of blood running down my leg.
Worringly more upset at the idea of actually having to move than the idea of having glass in my legs, I stood up and made my way towards the exit. Amy provided support in the form of escorting me to the door and offering me such advice as, "if you're sick, just do it in your hands - it's fine". Eventually, we managed to find a rather charming night-club security officer, who offered me his coat and recommended we make our way to the local hospital. I think I can safely say that Amy and I did a fantastic job of convincing him that we had consumed only 2 drinks each (two 'double-vodka lemonades' to be precise).
It was a good thirty minutes before our taxi (due to arrive 'as soon as possible') finally made an appearance. For some reason, Amy thought it appropriate to further alter the truth when explaining our level of intoxication to the confused cabby. "One and a half drinks each" I remember her telling him.
When arriving at the Hospital, I struggled to hobble into the waiting area as Amy desperately tried to convince the Receptionist that we had only consumed 'one drink each'. After 20 long minutes spent reading perhaps every poster in the room, (many of which must have been intended to scare the sh*t out of anyone unlucky enough to be reading them. "Do you have AIDs?" "Anyone can have breast cancer." Thanks, hospital. I only came here to have a few cuts sewn up, now I'm questioning every aspect of my upbringing in order to ensure I haven't contracted a fatal disease) the Doctor arrived.
Whilst he was fiddling around with my cuts, Amy decided to provide a running commentary of his every move,
"The doctor's coming into the room. He's sitting down on a chair. He's got a needle, Rachael. He's injecting your leg. Don't look, Rachael. Now he's getting up. He looks really irritated. Perhaps I should stop talking..."
The remaining night soon passed and the following morning saw me arrive at home by 9am. The night's antics were reflected in a colorful mesh of cuts and bandages covering my right leg. Upon seeing this mess, my un-sympathetic parents offered the remark,
"Well, you shouldn't drink, should you?"
Perhaps I should start listening to my parents... Perhaps not? After all, what is being a student all about? Besides, as Amy will testify, we only had half of a double-vodka lemonade each. Right, Amy?!
P.S, many thanks to Amy. Without whom, I'd probably still have glass in my leg and hatred towards men in my heart!
The Mighty Boosh
How it all began...
It all started on Monday the 17th of November. My classmate, Abbie and I had decided earlier in the week to engage ourselves in a 'Mighty Boosh stalk', and had agreed that this was the perfect opportunity to do so. We left our humble abode in search of the flared genuises at 4.30pm and arrived at the theatre at 5pm.
When the cast actually decided to make use of the stage door (unaware that Abbie and I were eagerly awaiting their arrival from behind a small pillar) we could scarcely believe our luck - epecially when we managed to nab ourselves a photo with the unbelievably hot Mr Dave Brown!
After the Boosh had managed to escape from our clutches, Abbie and I decided to purchase some extremely over-priced merchandise from the booth in the corner of the foyer. Whilst buying my fifth 'souvenir' and weeping inside at how far I was in to my overdraft, a rather shady looking man grabbed my attention. He was smiling at me from behind a poster stand and beckoned me to him. Confused, I made my way over whilst quickly scanning the periphery to ensure an easy escape, should I need to make one.
'Hello, love. I'm the tour manager', he beemed in his almost-sexy liverpudlian accent, 'fancy a VIP pass to the Mighty Boosh tomorrow night?'
Now, I know what you're thinking - I was thinking the same. This man couldn't possibly have looked any dodgier but he had, in three sentences, made many of my dreams come true!
Off to Bournemouth...
With the prospect of an after-show party filling my mind like some delicious cancer, I set off on my way to Bournemouth the very next morning, picking up best friend, Amy on the way (Abbie was busy).
The text I had recieved from Perry several hours prior to starting the journey had promised front-row seats and free tickets to a private Boosh party, which was taking place in a nearby restaurant after the show. Hardly your everyday night-out!
Several hours into the trip, as the conversation was wilting like the genetals of a pensioner, I recieved a text message from the tour manager saying the following:
'hey rachael. awful shame, but noel fielding's quite unwell. afraid the after show party's been cancelled'
The hotel...
'Well', we hoped, 'obviously things will pick up once we arrive at our 'comfortable', 'atmouspheric' and 'inexpensive' hotel'.
Driving down the road on which our hotel was situated, Amy and I were positive the sat-nav had been mistaken, and that we were in fact driving through a giant skip; unfortunately for us however, this wasn't the case. As we neared our hotel, even my chavved-up Renault Clio seemed unsure of the place and began making some very strange noises, almost as if it were weeping - I didn't blame it.
Already 15 minutes behind schedule, the last thing we needed was an indian receptionist rambling on about how to use a key. Sadly this was the greeting we recieved.
The show...
After rushing to get ready in 5 minutes, we made our way, with haste, towards the BIC theatre, stopping only to ask another indian for directions. Her responce was:
'You follow this road round to the left, go past the BIC theatre, keep going straight and it's on the right opposite Gala bingo.'
Upon arriving at the theatre, we were greeted by our tour manager friend. He 'regretted to inform' us that he had been unable to get us the tickets we desired, but that we were now sat almost 20 rows from the front. 'Thanks', I remember whispering.
Despite all, the show was an absolute delight. Perhaps even better than the previous night in Plymouth which I had had to pay for. The over-priced merchandise tempted me once again on the way out, but I managed to resist.
When arriving back at our hotel room, Amy and I realised we had little to do, so settled for throwing toilet paper around the room, setting up a bed in the cupboard, wiping make-up in the towels and generally being rowdy and irritating. It seemed a night-out wasn't on the cards, so we settled for a nice night-in with a bottle of wine - only, we didn't have a bottle of wine. Desperate for alcoholic beverages, we hopped into my luxury vehicle and headed for the town centre.
Three hours later, and still wineless, we returned to our hotel. Nowhere was open. Not even the 24 hour Tesco, the 24 hour Asda or the 24 hour garage.
Eventually we just decided to go to sleep.
The journey home...
Well, it had been a tiring night. With VIP passes and empty Mc donalds packets in hand, we made our way back to Plymouth feeling dissapointed, but happy nonetheless.
'The Mighty Boosh' full radio series felt like a suitable chioce of aural pleasure for the return journey, although most of the car trip was in fact spent discussing which elaborate lies we would share with the general public when asked how the trip went.
What really happened...
Amy and I hopped merrily into my car on Wednesday the 9th of November. We went to see the Boosh live, got front row tickets and met the cast afterwards, who invited us onto their tour bus to discuss possible ideas for their show. I slept with Dave Brown, and Amy chatted to Julian Barratt about cups. It was a fantastic night and, to top it all off, our hotel was smashing.
Thanks, tour manager. You're my new hero.
P.s, genuine thanks to Perry for the signed calendar. If you're reading this, you truely did make my night and I'll never forget you.