Well, recovering from a night at the Cranleigh Hotel is never an easy job, but today was especially frightening. Simon H’s birthday turned into a fancy-dress free-for-all, with your wibblery host rolling up as Osama bin Laden, while erstwhile partner Jac tottered around as a very impressive giant set of male genitals. With a convenient flap in the front in case the bladder needed a good empty. Brilliant! Well done him. Elsewhere, there were a couple of surgeons (Michelle and Becki), Elvis, Cruella de Vil, and a whole host of fetching outfits. One especially chucklesome moment came in the men’s toilets, when Jac in his phallic costume was relieving himself after a succession of wet pints. Another man entered, unaware of the fancy dress party, and looked bemused at the set of genitals that stood before him. After a few seconds had passed, Jac turned to face him, and slowly uttered the immortal words, “Just … pretend … everything … is … normal“. With that, the man dissolved into giggles, couldn’t follow through, so to speak, and left. Believe me, it was a surreal moment that won’t leave my addled brain for a while…
After all the FUN OF THE FAIR on Friday night, we were all washed out. Jac looked truly awful, emptying his stomach for most of the afternoon, while I was at work, a virtual zombie. A small night at the Cranley Hotel was called for for us all, where Jac and Shaun were due to sing their hearts out at Open Mike night. After Jac’s previous night’s success with Becki, both of them were a little apprehensive of meeting again, but things went well. Until, sadly, the landlord (a personal friend of Jac) turned up. Interrupting a perfectly civil conversation between Jac and Becki, the landlord drew up the table and announced, “So, Jac, I hear you pulled last night.” Everyone stopped talking. Tumbleweed skitted past. Jac’s life flashed before him, as everyone imagined the blokey gossip, congratulations and slaps on the back that must have gone on not half an hour before. “So, who was she? Was she nice?” the landlord asked again, ignoring the utter horror on our faces. “Well?”, the landlord again asked, desperate to glean any information at all from his clammed-up friend. Eventually, something had to give.
“Steve,” said Jac, “meet Becki.”
After the laughter died down, we tried to rescue the evening, but Jac, out of sheer embarrassment, and Becki, out of sheer awkwardness, barely talked for the rest of the night.
It was ALMOST worth it…
Last night was a standard night in Guildford with Jac , Michelle and Becki, with the added brilliance of a present Jac had bought for me. You see, when looking through some photos of my Mexican holiday a while back, he spied a picture of me holding a donkey – before turning to me and uttering the immortal words, “Nice ass.” We all agreed, after the laughter had died down, that this was a moment of comedic genius. And what should Jac find a few weeks later than a bright metal drinks coaster spelling the word ASS. I duly took my ASS around town with me on Friday night, squeezing all the amusing connotations I could out of the opportunity. For example, “don’t touch my ass”, “kiss my shiny ass”, and Jac’s chat up line, “would you like to touch my ass?” (and countless others) all came into play. in fact, Jac’s chat up line actually worked on Becki…
People have accused me, in my old age, of failing to party as hard as I used to. Handily, I have countered that accusation with APLOMB over the past two days. Your humble webmaster is currently bearly able to hear, think or string a sentence together after two nights of debauched antics. Friday night, originally earmarked by Michelle and I for a quiet cinema visit, turned into a semi-drunken night in Cranleigh with Shunta and Jac, singing karaoke (including the ever-present American Pie – the 9 minute version), and arriving home with part of a fence. It only got worse on Saturday, when Alex MacHorton’s birthday provided a good excuse for a boogie. Kingston’s McCluskys bar was blessed with our presence – a bar which to Jac and I’s amusement greets everyone with a sign: “Warning: Fun”. Duly warned, we entered. Becki and Michelle attracted the usual perverted “are they twins” comments, while Jac and I danced like buffoons, perfected some splendid new dancing techniques – the “Typewriter”, the “Tennis Match” and the “Lawnmower” to name a few. Only when we came out did we release that we were all pleasantly deaf, but still a perfectly splendid night all round. And it’s Jac’s birthday bash next weekend – god help me.
9am – We decide to go on some canoes for a while, and we cleverly choose a time when the waves are just picking up. 3 seconds after casting out to sea, Michelle flips over, and we all laugh ourselves hoarse. Soon, we get the hang of it, and half an hour later we’d tried to come to shore. This is ridiclously easy, and I rode in on a huge wave, managing to get half way up the beach without any help whatsoever. SPLENDID FUN.
10am – Michelle and Becki’s mum does a magnificent impression of a sprinkler in action, even down to the phhht phhht sounds. Truly impressive.
Drinks knocked Over = 0
9am – We manage to survive the second night with the air conditioning straining at the hinges, and venture off to the pool for more burning time.
10am – After an hour, my body resembles a grilled sausage, so I cover up and head for the internet cafe. Jac and Shunta are online, so I try my best to make them jealous. Jac kindly offers to be Becki’s boyfriend in order to drop everything and join me, which we consider a little too much, and Shunta wants to go to the pub. Unusually.
3pm – George the iguana has sadly disappeared, and we pine for him for about 3 minutes.
Today is also the day where my drink-knocking-over skills come to the fore.
Drinks Knocked Over: 2
For the first time in my short little life, I was dragged to watch a basketball match with Michelle and Becki last night (Saturday). And, to my complete surprise, I actually enjoyed it! Goodness. I discovered three main things that night.
1. Basketball players are plainly sexual magnets. After the game, thousands (well, a few) of the female crowd gathered round the stars, trying to swop phone numbers with them. It was difficult to watch in awe, being with my girlfriend and all, but I managed…
2. The Thames Valley Tigers, who I was supposed to support, are in fact one of the sweatiest groups of people I’ve ever seen. Especially Number 7, a huge, ugly tyke that was instantly labelled “Becki’s boyfriend” to the amusement of the rest of the group.
3. I discovered that basketball is the home to the world’s worst job. Every time a sweaty specimen hits the floor after a failed manouvre, a young boy has to get on his knees with a rag and mop up the patch of sweat, while members of the audience entertainingly shout, “put your back into it, man.” I SERIOUSLY hope his wage is worth it.