So the morning after a non-eventful night in Brighton (dryer than psoriasis does not cut it), and I’m absolutely hanging out my arse. No, my pyloric sphincter hadn’t prolapsed, but after getting so stoned I couldn’t even stand, I was feeling totes rough. So with only one way to proceed (hair of the gilèt) there we were drinking again. While we joked about the ming mong munter my brother had copped hold of (she looked like an infected thumb), I was randomly propositioned by a ‘hot’ guy.
It was his birthday, he was celebrating with champagne and did I want to join?
“Obviously, we’re professional” – Amy Childs. You gotta take all the chances while they’re rolling in. Suddenly I began shaking uncontrollably. Why was I so nervous?
In the taxi, he calls to give directions;
“Helloooo…” his outrageously camp shrill coos down the phone. Not being funny, I can be camp, but this was CAMP. It sounded like a cross between Hyacinth Bouquet and Little Britain. Oh my god, he’s gonna open the door and be dressed as a tranny, I know it!
Anyway, arriving at the flat, it turns out by “celebrating” he meant drinking alone in the dark. Even the flat looked lonely. Was I the only human interaction he’d had this year? So this flat, not only smelt like an eighty year-old woman, but it looked like it’d been decorated by one too. Hideously old fashioned with a bedroom/living room combo (heave), I felt like I was in a seventies horror film. I was just waiting to find the creepy china doll collection under his bed.
With the only light source coming from the fairy lights on his Christmas tree, I was expecting the eerie music to drop in at any second. Even in the dim lighting I could see he was a foot shorter, five years older and a stone and half heavier than his picture indicated. BIBLE. I should’ve left then, but was too polite (dumb) to just walk out.
So, CREEPY 1930’s flat, dim lighting, strange looking man – LATER! I was too pretty to die, let alone tortured in this crack den of a home. Like if you’re gonna slice me up slowly, at least do it on an egyptian cotton bedsheet, I mean have some decorum. Saying that, once I’d seen the artex ceiling and his single present under the Christmas tree, girl, I was ready to die! So he pops open the champagne which his aunty had advised
“Don’t drink it alone…” – So I wasn’t the only one suicidal looking at the decor then? I totes felt sorry him, but totes more so for me! This was scary, I had to get out of there.
He proceeded to drone on and on about the music industries biggest divas; by the six foot Mariah Carey poster next to his bed, I hadn’t guessed he was a fan. He moved on the Whitney’s X Factor car crash and by the time he was reeling off Celine Dion statistics, I was loading my handgun.
I couldn’t even face the champagne. I by no means have a developed palette, but even my taste buds could tell the difference between an own brand Cava and the real deal. Probably why he opened it in the kitchen; still, at least he KNEW to be ashamed.
So I had to think fast, flinging out a foot, I kicked the ‘bubbly’ all over his bed. As he mopped it up, I sent an SOS call to my friend in San Fransisco, even from across the globe he was saving my skin(ny)! After non-stop messages being received via WhatsApp I told him my brother was locked out so I had to go.
“But I’ve only just found you…” BIBLE!
“Ok, time to go- psy-cho!” – Jack, Will & Grace. Queue screeching shower music now. Only just found me?! And what, wanted to introduce me to his dead mother he probably had dangling from a hanger somewhere in his closet? (It would certainly explain the smell). I was in a taxi quicker than an Essex girl could say – ‘Oh my god, can you believe that? What a total psychic’.
Back outside my house, I vomited. If that’s not a bodily response as a warning ior someone , I don’t know what is. The next day I was so traumatised I totally went off Atkins for like two of my meals.
So, to summarise; probably already suicidal, middle aged man, whose only friends are his dead mum he’s keeping hidden and a cheap-skate aunty is celebrating his big three, zero, alone, in the dark when he meets a hot twenty one year old twink. Twink then proceeds to retch repeatedly at his interior design choices and topics of conversation before throwing LIDL’s own brand piss all over his flee market sheets and then leaving so quick, the rope and stool were probably out before I’d even closed the taxi door behind me. But… Every story has a silver lining, the silver lining here is that a) had he killed himself after I left, that is one LESS weirdo roaming Grindr and b) it gave me a perfectly valid excuse to eat my first bit of chocolate since Wilhelmina Slater declared it suicide.
Like silver linings, every story also has a moral; the moral here – TRUST your gut/bodily instincts, I was obviously shaking for a reason!