After being stuck on a crowded tube platform for forty minutes, there was still no space on the incoming trains. I channelled my inner budge-barge-and-Braveheart and pushed the Canary Wolves until I was on. Pressed up against the door and my face steam rolled on the window – I was left to balance my manbag on my head like some Third World water carrier.

Watching my bronzer smear across the glass as the train jerked I barely noticed the novelty condoms (complete with cartoon cows wearing wellies proclaiming: Wear your Rubbers) falling out of my bag and onto the five foot muslim woman beneath me. Needless to say, she was less than impressed;
Oh so she can cover her entire body, but I can’t cover one vital part of mine?
Double fucking standards, if you ask me.

Crammed in so tight that Ali Baba, who was unfortunately (or fortunately) positioned behind me, had his giblets squashed by my butt-cheeks.
This was the closest I’d ever get to having sex on the London tube.
So when we got off (after he got himself off), naturally he was running to A&E, while I was running to Superdrug for a First Response kit. I wasn’t sure what was worse the fact that I’d just stoned an elderly muslim lady with condoms or that I’d just pursed my man-pussy all over Osama Bin Laden. The horrific positioning with unidentified train passenger and the ricketing of the journey was enough to put me off sex until the next major ‘holiday’.

On the plus side, later that evening I made out with a bar tender I once second based, unfortunately kissing men in bars while drunk on Sambucca is as eventful as my Valentines got. A 180 change on last year:
When our Anti-Valentines night-out turned into more of an anti-social night-mare. I’d opted for a more mature look; a white shirt under a waistcoat, as opposed to white powder under my nose and ended up kissing a boy from out-of-town.
He was newly out and got everybody asking who the new man candy on my arm was. He was fresh meat, and they were the butchers looking to buy. They were like Jennifer Aniston to the role of a RomCom Debbie; they couldn’t resist.

It was his first time out all night, so obviously, I showed him the ropes. And obviously, by ropes, I mean drugs. He wanted to try new things, so I let him, but like a white man in a rap battle; he choked. LOLgasm. Well, it was funny until he began convulsing and the retrid smell of vomit reached my nostrils.  There was only one thing I wanted up my nose and it wasn’t the smell of her sick. Still, I’d rather see what he had for dinner come out of his mouth, than any other orifice.
So the hot socialite carrying the hot twink (two years my junior) on his arm, became the hot-headed bitch carrying the twink covered in her own sick. Not only had he puked down his own morbid attire, but looking down I thought
I don’t remember these jeans coming with carrot lumps on the crotch?

I have no recollection of adopting, but evidentially I had a baby in my arms! Disgusted, I dragged him by his lesbian haircut to the bathroom to clean up. I held his dykey hair back for six minutes while he lobbed up, before kicking him out of the club and into a taxi. Just goes to prove karma is always worse, when it’s not followed by the word sutra. I mean, Valentines day makes any self-respecting person feel nauseous but he just took it to the next level.