Friday, September 22, 2006

Of Hangovers, Nudity and Peas For Girls

A snippet of an email from my lovely friend Gemma:

"I'm extremely impressed and super-excited that you're actually doing the big proper "giving up your dayjob" and jumping into the music industry. How completely exciting is that?! I'm seriously thrilled and I want to come and be your bustling PA when you're extremely famous. I can just picture myself screaming "Léonie ONLY has GREEN smarties, fucknut!" - can't you?"

In truth I cannot just give her the job without putting all applicants through some rigorous testing first. Involving super-quick fetching of Brannigan's Roast Beef and Mustard crisps and convincing me I don't have fat arms/bad hair/three days to live.

Although the email ends thus:

"Miss you, beautiful naked dancing lady"

so Gemma might have to get the job due to her perhaps knowing some things I wouldn't necessarily want to share with the world.

********************************

I had a great night last night. Euan and I were due to meet at Tottenham Court Road at six-thirty. When I arrived at precisely six-forty-three Euan was standing outside the closed down music shop opposite We Will Rock You waiting for me. He told me that he had just seen Paul and Adam on their way to exactly the same pub we were going to. Feeling that turning and running fast in the other direction would be too much effort, we made our way to the pub to join them.

The pub was packed, and people were bursting out of the doors, sitting and standing all around on the street outside. We joined them, finding a step to sit on whilst we clutched our beers-in-plastic-pint-glasses (dangerous because you frequently squeeze them a bit too hard and the lager streams down your arm, causing you to have to do the elbow-out-neck-craned-forward sip to catch the frothing liquid before it runs down to your jeans and possibly into your bag). We sat, drank and caught up, and as the empty plastic pint glasses stacked up we began talking to strangers, in the way that you wouldn't on the tube but seems a great idea when you're a bit pissed and it's warm enough to be outside at ten o'lock at night. After a while Tom came to join us having been to a dinner where he had eaten pizza and talked mainly about sex.

The combination of no-dinner and too many pints meant that when Tom and I got back to my flat in Clapham I decided that the best thing in the world ever to do would be to make a tantalising meal for myself. Five minutes later I walked into my bedroom, swaying slightly and holding a bowl of chickpeas and cheese sprinkled liberally with lemon juice, and Tom said something probably implying that I was a bit resonated. Ignoring him I sat myself down on the floor and had a good four more mouthfuls of chickpeas before cling-filming it and putting in the fridge, saving it for later. I stand by my assertion that it was a viable thing to eat. I tried it this morning whilst I stood in the kitchen, soaking wet and wrapped in a towel, hungover to shit and making a three-spoons-of-Nescafé cup of coffee to pep the hangover away. It was very tasty, and if I hadn't felt so rubbish and if it hadn't been really too early for chickpeas, I might have eaten the whole lot.

I don't know if you can tell from the babbled style of writing I have opted for today, but I am quite hungover. It is one of those ebbing and flowing ones. Extreme fatigue, desire to crawl under the desk for a nap, excessive thirst and talking shit - these are all symptoms. I am not sure there is a cure. I may die from this low-grade hangover. It would be very sad. Hopefully in Heaven everybody is allowed to sleep under their desks if they want to.

I must stop typing now, otherwise I run a serious risk of starting to go off on tangents and telling you things like the fact that when anyone mentions Heaven I don't think of the afterlife and angels and things, I think of the gay nightclub under the arches near Charing Cross. I like it there, although the drinks in the VIP section are exceedingly pricey.

I shall round off with another email snippet, this time from Paul detailing the conversation he had with his girlfriend when he got home from the pub last night.

"'Did you have a good evening?'
'Yes. We drank beer and met a girl whose Italian BDSM fiancé dumped her over MSN Messenger and met Léonie's boyfriend and drank beer and had a lovely time and now I am drunk'
'Oh Fuckface,' she replied. I think she meant it affectionately."

UPDATE:

Three things.
1. Something or someone has started emitting a very high pitched beeping sound in the vicinity of my desk. I never knew I had this capacity for hatred.
2. Erica (see links) has posted a picture of Tom on her website, as we have a Small Group of Girls Who Blog Whose Boyfriends All Lived Together At One Time Or Still Do Now. I am going to get T-shirts made.
3. My friend just emailed me and said 'Let's go get lunched'. I like it. I am just off to get absolutely lunched out of my fucking mind.

7 Comments:

Anonymous Mr. Moody McMoodyPants said...

Mr. Moody McMoodyPants? OH NO SHE DIDN'T! Mr. Moody McMoodyPants!!!!! I feel the Dizzy Hulk coming out!!!!

4:27 pm

 
Blogger Léonie said...

I frown upon your excessive use of the exclamation mark.

Also are you secretly Scottish?

4:32 pm

 
Anonymous paul said...

If the shoe fits, McMoodyPants, if the shoe fits...

5:38 pm

 
Blogger Léonie said...

Quite, Paul. An astute lady, that Erica.

5:51 pm

 
Anonymous Paulidija (gestalt) said...

By the way, it's 'fiancée'...

2:12 pm

 
Blogger Miss Devylish said...

I want a picture if/when you decide to make those t-shirts.

Chickpeas and cheese.. hm.. I usually just make hummus instead.. but ok. Whatever works.

I wanna see Tom's pic.. going to look now.

12:00 am

 
Blogger Miss Devylish said...

I now get the comments, nice to finally see mr. moody mcmoodypants in the flesh.. ermm.. so to speak.

12:04 am

 

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