The Walk of Shame

It starts with a glance. A glance over the bar. He looks at you and you look back at him. It feels as though there’s nobody else in the room. Everything feels as though it’s in slow motion, and suddenly, the 300 other people around you don’t matter anymore. Daring to take a step forward towards him, you flick your hair, kind of like Pamela Anderson would have done on the beach (before she looked like a plucked ostrich). One foot in front of the other. You are a Peacock in a room full of Pigeons. You go to saddle up next to him, beaming those pearly whites at him when, his girlfriend comes up behind him. An orange creature with a mouth like a fog horn. She puts a hand on his shoulder and marks her territory. Bitch.

Stood there, face blushing, and the room in full speed motion again, you’re suddenly pushed from behind and a ‘lad’ called Jason spills his pint of ale over you:

“Sorry darlin’. Ooh yew ere’ wiv? Wann’a drink?”

“Dear god, no!”

Turning away from Jason, heading back to your friends, you let out a sigh of relief, thankful to your own standards that you will never go home with the drunken ‘lad’. It’s a crying shame that the hot guy was already in a relationship with a Satsuma, but plenty more fish in the see and all that. All thoughts of guys are erased from your mind and the night becomes a distant blur as one of your friends yells

“SHOTS! WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOH!”

It’s 10am. The curtains are shut. It’s dark. You’ve woken up and it is now officially the morning after the night before. Trying to lubricate your mouth which has become like the bottom of a bird cage, you roll over and go to stretch, maybe even let out a hangover-fart when, you realize that this isn’t your bed. This isn’t your bed and this isn’t your room. There is someone in the bed with you. Pulling back the sheet is like a lucky dip: It could be a Prada watch, or it could be a bag of dog shit. What’s it going to be……dog shit………You went home with Jason.

Panic ensues and you try to slide out of bed without waking him up. You reach down and throw on the clothes that you find. Where has your underwear gone!? They’re hanging on his picture frame, boasting a signed Manchester United poster. Reaching over Jason to retrieve them, he makes a groaning noise. Screw the underwear, you’ve got plenty more. Get out, just get out of the house now!!

Upon leaving his house, you go to make the standard panic call to your best friend; the bitch who is clearly to blame for this mess as she should have stopped it from happening. The phone has no power. No need to panic, just find a bus stop. What time does the bus get in? More importantly, where the fuck is Rotherham!? You catch the bus back to the city and begin to walk through it, which, as it’s a Saturday morning, is brimming with shoppers, and then there’s you, in your wine-stained wrap dress, hair looking trés Bon Jovi (circa 1987), with no underwear. You’re so classy. Walking through the bustling streets, trying to make your way to the train station, the sex paranoia kicks in. You are totally and utterly convinced that absolutely everyone who looks at you is thinking “slut”. That’s probably because Jason used your lipstick to etch his number onto your forearm and rounded it off with an ejaculating penis diagram (which by the way, is a very over confident size).

One stressful geographical incident later and a public transport drama that left you with more grey hairs than you have auburn and you have finally made it home! No questions answered to your judgemental house mates upon walking through the communal kitchen (piss off, don’t act like you haven’t done this before). Phone is recharging and you are lying in a Hollywood-esque bubble bath, willing the night before to go away. You vow to never, ever have a one night stand again for as long as you shall live and instead agree with yourself that the way forward from now on is to tactfully and delicately sip soda water and lime, whenever you are invited out. In fact, from now on, you’re just not going out, full stop. Having made peace with your own mind and agreeing (again to yourself) that the night before was purely a one-off incident and that is entirely your best mate’s fault, your phone beeps. It’s Monica, your best mate

“LOL about you last night! Wanna go check out the new club in town later?”

“Lol, don’t even. What time?”

Click here for the next instalment

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