WORDS: Anthony Gilét

There’s comes a point in every socialite’s life when the parties, clubs and dating just feels like it’s not worth the agro anymore.

I’m one of those people that wants to get the most out of my life; if I get roped in to going to a dreggy club just because it’s my mates birthday, and that’s where they wanna go – well we’re gonna take that shit venue and tear it up anyway. Because that’s how we do. If there’s a Pride festival on and I can get to it, I’m there with bells on. If I wanna go out to a club because I know a certain boy is gonna be there, just because on the off-chance something might come of it, I’m buying a new outfit and I’m slow-motion walking through the entrance of that club.

If my fave is performing, but I’m too broke to go, I’m gonna blag my way in to the venue and pre-drink cider on the bus. If I want an experience, I’m basically hunting it down and wearing it as a fur gilét.

That’s how I am, and it’s how I’ve always been. Being a true party boy isn’t a lifestyle you choose, it’s in your blood. I get it from my mother, who, from the stories I’ve heard was always the smile in the middle of a crowded party too. As she died when I was eight, I never got a chance to see that in real life – but always knew she was looking down and admiring my dedication to a flourishing social life.
Of course, there’s been times when I’ve gone chasing an amazing night and it’s totally flopped, but that’s just part of it – you can’t have wicked nights out all the time – it isn’t fair on the pathetic goats that wouldn’t know a good time if it racked ’em up a line of rocket fuel, and took them back to the Playboy Mansion for a three-way with Matt Damon and Zac Efron.

Anyway, after so many rejections/complications with boys, nights that weren’t worth the comedown, and just a general ennui with the Scene. You start to wonder if a change would suit you better.

Last week I’d decided to take a step back. And a “step back” is putting it lightly, as it was more like an oath. I’d vowed not to go turning up to clubs expecting things to happen with the boys I was crushing on. I’d vowed never to be peer pressured into going somewhere I didn’t want to. I’d vowed to go on a health kick – and that if I wanted to have a truly happy life, I needed to more or less stop going out and focus on the richer things in life, like the sunshine and all that wank.

So when I was tempted to go out last Thursday, I told myself not to. There were boys going that I fancied, there were good mates of mine going, and I was dying to get royally drunk – all the ingredients for a good night, usually. But I told myself that it would lead to disappointment when a boy did something to piss me off like not laughing when I cracked a joke, or when he pied me off after I drunkenly insinuated we have sex

You know, the real important things.
Anyway, with a few ratchet bitches sure to be in attendance I convinced myself that it was healthier for my mental state to get an early night. Besides I have loads of boring mates that don’t even suffer from FOMO (Fear Of Missing Out). If they can do it, surely I can too.

And then WHAT does the Universe do? What does it fucking do? It sends Lindsay fucking Lohan to Room Service, while I’m asleep in my bed. The ONE week I’m snuggled under my duvet, and my icon is stumbling/sashaying through my local hot spot. I don’t wanna bash on about how missing a selfie with Li-Lo has ruined my week, but it has. Everybody has that one person they wanna meet. Mine is Lindsay.

She was an inspiration when I used to take copious amounts of drugs and spend days on end in Vauxhall. She taught me that bulimia isn’t a bad habit, it’s a beauty technique. And I owe every photo of my side-boob to her. She’s on my list of dream dinner guests (even though she probably wouldn’t eat and knock down a few pedestrians on her drive home). She’s on my bucket list – ‘Selfie With Lindsay’ – right under bungee jumping and before writing a novel.

When I got the Whatsapp message telling me, I almost dropped off the treadmill at the gym. And then had a cardiac arrest. This could NOT be happening…

Li-Lo was in attendance with fellow blogger, Vas J Morgan, Lauren Pope and Lewis Bloor (all of TOWIE).

Everything happens for a reason. Everything happens for a reason.

I repeated the mantra while refraining from throwing the free weights through a mirror. So do you know what I did? I bought a Red Berry Frappacino (because if I’m gonna eat chocolate I might start slamming butter), and I went shopping (because it cures stress like cocaine).

Everything happens for a reason.

But what was it? It took me a while, but then I had it. Shit like that don’t just happen every day. Now I know my mother must’ve had something to do with that. She was sitting up there on a cloud, seeing me want to make a change and decided to intervene.

Originally I thought it was her way of saying, I should never avoid a party ‘cause of a few pricks. Then I realised that my mother would never encourage me to go out and get trashed, and that deep down if I really wanted to be out, ain’t nobody gonna stop me anyway. Instead, perhaps it was her way of encouraging a positive change. Sure, it was one harsh way of doing it – but if I can miss Lindsay Lohan at Room Service, then any other night is just a drop in the ocean.

Who knew you could actually miss a night out and survive? Besides, FOMO never lasts more than 12 hours. Like Lindsay’s sobriety.

The universe works in strange ways, and a little something good does usually come out of something bad.

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