Sunday, 13 March 2016

I Blame the Acid!

Wine o’clock – Best night ever again until it no longer was.
Sod off James – the millstone around my neck – was the general consensus amongst mi mates and it didn’t take much coercing for me to adopt their way of thinking (well deindividuation is a real problem amongst group members) and on that note I cannot really be held responsible for the catastrophe that happened next.
So after telling James to simmer darn when he reprimanded me again for going OTT during happy hour, I started to loosen up; that is I found the girl that had been stifled for the last year. Now we all know what happens when an animal has been locked up for way too long and is then released into the wild, don’t we?!
Anyway I was having the best time. Flannigan’s attempted conditioning of my behaviour was no longer of any concern to me once the cheap house white (working men’s club, it was probably watered down with wazz – either that or somebody had dropped acid in) started taking its delicious effect.
I was dancing around like a fairy on crack; reminiscing, back in my raving days, Old Skool style. You never quite lose the ability to dance like you’re stacking boxes on a shelf. I had been so caught up in my awesome moves that I even forgot to make Horrid Harriet jealous by rubbing myself up on James’s leg all night and rubbing it in her face (the irony not my actual leg...well you get it) that I had bagged the affluent one. Me who grew up in a corporation house with council pop – quid’s in!
James has money you see (well his mother has money, which was once her husband’s money, so James reaps the benefit of said money and the dollar sign impresses Horrid Harriet). I, on the other hand, neither have money nor impress HH.
Don’t get me wrong I earn an honest living. I run my own wedding boutique you know but my wage is chuff all in comparison to The Flannigan’s monies. I can afford my own tiny house and I can afford to employ Sarah full-time (my radical feminist and my other best mate) and I can eat (most weeks) so I am happy – rather I was until James pointed out that there are so many areas that I need to vastly improve in/on/at about life, business and everything. In other words up until meeting The Flannigan’s, I knew nowt and was bugger all.
Never the less I eventually started flaggin. There are only so many boxes you can stack before you feel like you’re about to die. I carefully manoeuvred my aching, bare feet over the dance floor, (apparently my one shoe was behind the bar and the other, still hasn’t turned up) towards my other best friend Carrie’s knees.
I flung my arms around her neck and whispered in her ear; ‘I want to do a mischief.’ I didn’t need to repeat myself. She jumped up from of her chair – leaving the elderly to their conversations about refugees (they are completely clueless to the fact that they are acutely racist but dare to point that out and you’re never too old to get a clout up side a lug’ole. Seriously though it bleeding kills. Sarah’s cousin got clouted that many times that he developed a cauliflower ear) – dropped me on the floor, dragged me up by my hand and whisked me off towards the stage. I was, by this time, what we refer to round here as absolutely chuffing kaylied!
What happened next is completely down to Carrie’s power of suggestion.
I should have stayed on the dance floor (but you know what they say about shoulda, woulda, coulda being the last words of a fool – well you do now) like the other normal party people and enjoyed myself just the right amount of crazy, maybe then I would not have ruined the lives of others, alienated my one and only ever serious boyfriend but worst of all, chuffed Horrid Harriet to bits no end.

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