The Hangover Part IV…

I have to say, I think last night was was the worst nights out I’ve had so far at uni.

Having not been out out for three weeks (flu, home, sleep), I’ve literally been chomping at the bit for a good evening of partying; but far be it for me to have a decent clubbing experience…

Oh no, I can’t be a normal person and get completely trollied, have a bit of a boogie with a hot guy, snog a stranger and stagger home with my flatmates.

Instead last night turned out to be some sad low-budget parody of The Hangover.

And you want to know the worst part of it all?

I WAS DOUG.

I’ll start form the beginning…

I did a bit of pre-drinking with the girls and then we headed out to our Wednesday night haunt where, as per usual, we had to wait in a “queue” for half an hour before we even got to the door.

I am too short for this shit.

Do you know how painful it is being mosh pitted against metal railings by drunk rugby and football guys when you’re 5’1?

I’ll tell you…

…VERY.

When we finally made it to the entrance, we were given a tag and told to come back half an hour later when our colour was called…

..really?

NO.

So instead we MI5’d it into the club and managed to procure a different colour tag that would get us in earlier.

At half eleven, after an hour of sitting at a bench covered with spilled beer, we were finally allowed into the R&B room where I danced with one of my friends for a bit…

…until she stared getting off with a random guy and my third wheeling got to a stage of painful awkwardness.

So then I Marco’s Polo’d it and found my two other friends outside where I stayed and chatted, until I was dragged back in for some more dancing.

Queue EVEN MORE AWKWARD THIRD WHEELING while the same friend got off with one of the guys in her seminar group dressed as a Mexican (who later turned out to be a creepy dick).

At this stage I somehow managed to make friends with a guy called Will who told me I was stunning but he had a girlfriend (bullshit but…LIFE, WHY?) and a girl called Sophie,  and danced with them while my flatmate played tonsil hockey.

We then dispersed and I buggered off to try and find everyone, sans phone, thanks T-Mobile for your wonderful signal coverage…best UK network my arse.

I can’t even remember how long this lasted until I finally got pissed off and decided to leave.

When I got back I had a load of texts and missed calls from my other two friends who it turns out were wandering around on their own looking for eachother as well.

NONE of them pulled…

…Guys, THE END IS NIGH.

So now I sit, hanging without a cause.

Admittedly when I woke up on my mattress it wasn’t on a roof…and my only souvenirs of the night were my (accidentally) stolen entry tags rather than a small child or a tiger…

And to think I’m meant to be showing my Essex friend how to party wop-a-uni-style (geddit, Gangnam Style? Haha..ha ha..ha…ha?) this weekend.

So far all I’ve got is get drunk and wander around on your own like a twat.

Eggy bread and aspirin is happening…right now.

image

image

image

image

The only way is Essex…

I’m home!

I’m in complete bliss…I’ve seen my family, I’ve had a three hour soak in an actual bath, I’ve been cooked food and bought clothes and spent the entire morning curled up by the fire doing some reading.

What’s that? You want me to address the elephant in the room? AKA the title of this post?

Yes, believe it or not, I hail from the great and infamous county that is ESSEX.

I can honestly tell you though, the reality of Essex is a lot different to what you see on TV…

Do the OAPs at my bus stop wear Ugg boots, leggings and tracksuits?

Yes.

Have I ever owned a pink velour tracksuit, a Paul’s Boutique handbag, fake eyelashes and glitter heels?

Yes.

Despite the stereotypes…and I’m sorry be the one to tell you this…but in actual fact the majority of Essex is countryside. You’re more likely to bump into a loose cow than Amy Childs or Mark Wright (sadly), and yes, this has actually happened to me before; two cows escaped from the pen on the hill and were mooching about on the main road…THIS ISN’T INDIA. I’ve also been stuck on a train on my birthday that was held up by an AWOL ‘orse…oh to be in the country.

My hometown is surrounded by fields; we have one supermarket, a few restaurants, a marina and a farm and that’s about it. I associate home more with open fields, long walks by the river and the smell of horse manure than fake tan, fake tits and hair extensions.

Disappointed?

I thought so…

The people at uni sadly don’t seem to be as educated on the geographical reality of my home county…

I’ve had numerous reactions to telling people where I’m from, from the ever-so-lovely “that’s a shame” to “how comes you don’t have an accent?” to being given ‘the eye’ because they automatically assume I’m easy.

Le sigh.

Trust me I’ve heard all the jokes.

In fact I’ll just write some now to save you the trouble:

Q. What do Essex girls use for protection during sex?
A. Bus Shelters.

Q. Why does an Essex girl wear knickers?
A. To keep her ankles warm.

Q. What’s the difference between an Essex girl and an ironing board?
A. Occasionally you have trouble getting the legs apart on an ironingboard.

Q. Why are Essex girls only allowed 30 minute lunch breaks?
A. It takes too long to retrain them if they take an hour.

Q. How do you make an Essex girl laugh on a Saturday?
A. Tell her a joke on a Wednesday.

ARE YOU SATISFIED?

As a joke I’m considering going back down south in a pink velour tracksuit, my Paul’s Boutique Barbie bag, some fake Uggs and lashings of sparkly jewellery. It would be committing social suicide; people don’t even dress up to go out clubbing at uni (pffft), but it would be so worth the looks on my flatmates’ faces.

I’m sure I could get a hold of some white stilettos.

*Rubs hands together gleefully*

He he.

P.S. My friend may be coming down from Essex to visit next week, watch this space for the mischief we get up to…

P.P.S. If you’re from another country or just have no idea what the “Essex girl” stereotype is I’m referring to go here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Essex_girl

IT’S NOT TRUE.

Swear.