Guess who’s back. Back again…
Me. That’s who. Apologies for my absence from 22 and on the shelf, I’ve been extremely busy trying to write MY EDINBURGH SHOW. You’ll probably be hearing about it a lot on here as I’m about to instigate an intrusive marketing campaign across all social media to encourage people to come. It’s in Edinburgh by the way, at the monkey cellar at 7:30pm for the whole of August. Miss it and miss out.
Making people laugh while I talk about myself for an hour has started to feel more and more terrifying and it will come as a surprise to no one that I haven’t managed to keep up intended levels of sobriety.
I cracked for the first time at a friend’s party in Battersea and haven’t looked back since. This is in spite of the fact that my friend called me the next day to tell me that he had to drag me out of the bath. I was trying to claim diplomatic immunity for my horrendous behaviour due to being in international waters.
There is a moral to this story. Never drink white wine. There is a certain type of woman who cannot drink white wine without utterly disgracing herself. That woman is me. There’s something about white wine for me that is uniquely dangerous. We call it the white wine werewolf, and it doesn’t just come out at night. He happens when you’re at the races, at family events but more often than not, he rears his ugly head when you are on a date.
Nothing turns white wine into lady petrol quite like a date. It always starts innocently enough. You meet. You make some small talk, you attempt to crack some witty jokes. You’re having a great time. You order more drinks. You stick to wine and he gets a beer. This is when the werewolf starts to growl.
I’m no fool. I know that wine has three times the alcohol of beer and yet I continue to match him drink for drink. The next thing you know you’re signing your date into a private members club under your ex’s name. You order a club sandwich on your ex’s tab. You snog your date in full view of a crowded bar at 8pm. You go to the loo. You lie down on the floor for 30 seconds. You fall asleep.
You wake up to your ex banging on the door. He’s seen the club sandwich and he wants answers. Your date has left. Your ex is furious. You cry. He calls you a cab. You wake up fully clothed and refuse to go on a date for 6 months because the shame attacks just won’t end.
This is the curse of the white wine werewolf. Have fun drinking in the sun this weekend ladies. You’ve been warned.