Hi. My name is Lou. And I haven’t had a drink for seven days.

I haven’t even thought about the Harvey’s Bristol Crème that I left in my mate’s kitchen on New Year’s Day. Haven’t thought about that at all. Nope. Not about the fact it’s sitting near the sink, by the fairy liquid, and to the side of the correspondence, and is half full. (I said half full. Therefore I’m ok; I’m still up beat alright?)

I have even managed to go to the pub, with friends, and not mind that they’re four bottles of red deep, whilst I just enjoy a coffee, an orange juice, a tea, a water, another water, and some pickled chilli’s.

There’s something quite eye opening about watching other people drink. Other people that you would normally be getting shit faced with. As the volume goes up with every glass of wine, and the lips get bluer, you suddenly realise that those crazy years of going straight to the pub after work for happy hour, and the hours lost along with the memory, must have been hell for everyone else around us. We had a great time. I think. Even if we did get thrown out of several places, barred from one, for singing show tunes loudly over a civilised Sunday lunch sitting, and once wondered around Chorlton on a New Year’s Eve, walking into other peoples parties. We got into three different houses that year, and ended up at a teenager’s party by telling them that my drinking companion worked in telly and could make them famous. Error. That resulted in him being smothered by eager young adults, plying him with their vodka, him then vomiting on their patio, and I woke up with a website on my face. (The kids were in a band. I think we vaguely promised them a spot on Top Of The Pops. They wrote their website on my hand in permanent marker, which I slept on, and had to walk around for three days with moc.dnabeganeetlufwayllaer.www written on my face. Jolly good.)

Anyway, the swimming has been going well. I appear to be a speed demon in the water. Who knew this chubster could move? Only on my back though. Which is where I’m most comfortable strangely enough. Me and my swimming chum are aiming, eventually, to do ‘the lift’ from Dirty Dancing. I’m not sure which one of us will be Patrick. Depends who has the closest shave on the day I suppose. Although I’m short so naturally that means I’m Baby, doesn’t it? We’ve both got to build up our upper arm strength. I appear to have muscles that would make Jeff Capes envious, in size, not in ability unfortunately. I have a lovely picture of me jumping out of a swimming pool in Lanzarote when I was 15, flexing my arms. I look like Hulk Hogan. (One of my more attractive shots from when I was a teenager, clearly) I think we’re both tussling to be Baby, the only part of the audition we’ve both been successful in so far is holding our water melons. It’s going to be a tough call.
In other news I went to a mate’s house for a cuppa yesterday and she has cosmically ordered herself a husband.
If you’re not aware of the delights of cosmic ordering, it’s basically what Noel Edmonds started doing in the early 90’s when his career went tits up after people started dying on his shows. He had a word with the universe to provide him with a new career, and thus, Deal or No Deal was born. Jan, mother, is into cosmic ordering. She does it for parking spaces at supermarkets, so she can park right in the door, and strangely enough there’s always one by the entrance waiting for her. I have said that those spaces have a big orange picture of a wheelchair on them, and that they are always there, but this doesn’t seem to count somehow.
Anyway, my friend, wrote a shopping list of everything she wanted in a man, and has read it out to the universe, and well, he’s only been delivered hasn’t he? Typical City Link, they apparently have tried to deliver on several occasions but she was never available, but now, finally, he’s arrived. Apparently he is everything she wanted and more. Well lucky you.
So last night I wrote my list. 1. Massive cock. And that was it. Apparently you’re supposed to be a bit more accurate with your thoughts. (I thought I was, but mine came across as more he must be a, as opposed to he must have a. Good lesson though in knowing what you want. I now have 62 things on my list. Is that too much? …..pah…..and people say I’m picky. Sometimes.)

I’m writing this whilst looking after my mate’s cat. Anyone that knows me, knows how I feel about cats. This one though is growing on me, although I have surrounded myself with orange peel, and he’s not come near me all morning. Apparently they don’t like citrusy things. Either that, or he simply hates me. Anyway, he’s not bitten me, so I’m happy. He is in fact splayed across the table. He nodded off during Emily Sande on the radio and hasn’t woken up since. Perhaps hospitals could use that instead of anaesthetic? Just a thought. He is officially the biggest cat I have ever seen in my life. He’s due to be allowed to go outside soon. I fear for all small animals in his wake. My mate said she’s going to put butter on his feet to ensure he knows where to come back to, which I think is a marvellous idea. I’m thinking of doing the same when City Link bring me my husband.



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2 responses to “Thirsty.

  1. Ha – thanks for that entertaining few minutes! Not drinking is so hard because the alternatives are so dull and you never want more than one of anything else. GOOD LUCK with it, and with finding the cat.

  2. Jayne

    You’d better tip that Harvey’s away otherwise you know where it’s going. Keep it up.

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