DISASTER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

NEver have I beens so de-presed after drinking.!!osm! And I shall tell you why!! It is a diasaster! A national catashrtophe!!!!!!!!!! CATASTPROPHE!!!!!!!!!!

Itw as supposeed to be such a GOOD night!! Pub crawl! Perfect excuse to get drunk with mauritian guy!

And it worked too! At first...

And then he turned to another girl! WHY?!!!!!!!!!! WHY WHY HYW?!

So i tried to balance it out by paying attentin to a Nowegian guy (I didn't want to be obvious). Only...I paid a littel too much atettention and now Norwegian guy thinks I'm v much into him...which i'm not, because he's not hot...but that's beside the point. Because I'm not shallow...and I value maturity and communication and hotness and and..and hotness which is Mauritian guy. But now Mauritian guy probably thinks:
a. I am a slag.
b. I am into not-hot Norwegian guys.

So now I have a dilemmma - to call and confess? or to play it cool, a nd let him do the work.

I cry.

Beacuse I really thought we had something tehre and now I've mucked it all up.

Fucking pub crarwls..

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I was at another birthday party last night. But one with rules:

"EXCLUDING UNDERGARMENTS ALL APPAREL MUST BE OF A PARTICULARLY BAD TASTE. OP-SHOP QUALITY IS PREFERRED. HOWEVER IF YOUR OWN WARDROBE ACCOMMODATES THEN PERSONAL BAD TASTE CLOTHING WILL BE ACCEPTED.

SHOE QUALITY IS OPTIONAL DUE TO THE INTOXICATION SAFETY ACT OF 1985."

I decided to go with a stripey theme - I am, after all, a zebra:

• Stripey black-n-white toe socks
  
  
• Stripey candy-coloured pajama pants
  
  
• Black-n-white striped jailbird shirt (a salute to Aussie heritage)
  
  
• Red Scottish Tammy hat, complete with fake red hair (not stripey, but it was plaid - close enough)

Perfik.

Actually getting to the party was a bit touch 'n go at first. The first bus that came by tried to run me over but had a change of heart at the last moment and went for a jogger wearing tights instead. So I waited half an hour for the next one, and even then I had to take my Tammy off before the driver allowed me on (he must've still been smarting over Australia's lost swimming golds).

I managed to reach the party without further incident (no one wanted to sit next to me on the bus though - rejection hurts). Pulled the Tammy back on, gave myself a quick onceover, and walked through the door.

And had a Bridget Jones "Tarts and Vicars" moment. Apparently, everyone else had taken "Bad Taste" to mean shirts advertising crap bands or crap drinks. As far as I could see, the title-holder of "Worst Taste" pre-stripes was an English rugger jersey.

It was going to be a lousy night.

I ran to hide in the kitchen. And just as I popped the cap off a bottle, a voice floated out from behind the island.

"There's a rental fee if you're gonna share my hiding spot."

It was my Mauritian Soccer Guy! In full dag glory! Chelsea jersey! Mickey Mouse boxers! Winnee the Pooh suspenders! Hideous bow tie! Purple football socks!

It was going to be a great night.

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Dinner at the Belgian Beer Cafe.

I try not to look too worried as I contemplate the tasting tray sitting before me. Everyone else has already ordered their favourites and they’re all watching me expectantly. I scan the bottles already on the table – a couple of Chimays, a Leffe, and three different Hoegaardens.

Is this a test? I can’t help but feel that any future invitations will hang on my beer choice. Will they think less of me if I choose a Chimay White over Blue? And what if I pick an utterly pretentious beer? Will that reflect my innate brand-whorism?

I try to fish for hints.

“Hmm, why don’t you try one first and tell me what you think?”

“No thanks, darling, I’ve got mine. Just pick one. It’s really your own taste.”

So much for that. Until tonight, my taste tended to gravitate towards whatever was on special at the bottleshop. Sigh. This would be so much easier if they hadn’t detached the little bits of paper naming and describing the beers first.

Right, here goes. The first two are immediately rejected. Too big, too heavy. The third’s a bit iffy. It’s alright, but it’s also boring. It doesn’t taste like it has any personality. If the last one doesn’t go down well either, I’m stuck between three beers that I don’t like and one that says that I watch golf.

I pick up the last glass. And the first sip takes me by surprise because it starts off unexpectedly tingly, almost bitey. It’s very smooth though, and subtle. I like it. A lot. It tastes like it belongs in a club/lounge as opposed to the first two which have seem more pubbish. Refined. Sophisticated. Like me.

Someone passes me the bit of paper that came with it. “Delirium Tremens”. Good name (haha) even if it does sound a bit cocktail-y. 9% alc. vol. (phwoar, put that next to a Heineken’s 5%).

I place my order and smirk with self-satisfaction. Until my bottle arrives.

Pink elephants.

     

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It’s 6 am and I’m in tears. I just puked my guts out barely ten minutes ago but already I need to go again. And I don’t think I can make it to the loo this time, stumbling around in the dark, still half-pissed. Plus the door might not lock properly, not after I tripped and fell straight onto the door handle just now.

I feel utterly and completely wretched.

I try to recall what last night’s occasion was. Oh yes. St. Patrick’s Day. Apparently, it was crucial that we got absolutely smashed to honour St. Paddy, even if none of us at the party was Irish. Well, we definitely drank enough to honour him and any other saints we might have missed earlier.

It wasn’t even that spectacular a party, not enough to make the pain I’m in worth it anyway. All I remember is helping to break up a fight (one guy had to be grabbed in an armlock while the other was dragged outside – I did the talking and door-locking), breaking a glass, falling asleep in the corridor, and someone carrying me home. At least Security didn’t come down to break the party up this time.

Alright, maybe I drank a little too much.

Oh god, I feel sick. And if I don’t stop puking soon, I’ll have to crawl up to the Health Centre to get a rehydration jab. The last time I felt this bad, I went off alcohol for at least a month. This is it. Time for another month’s break, I think.

And then I catch sight of the cool Guiness cap that Bottleshop Adam gave me last night.

Well, make that a couple of days.

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you've had too much to drink when you squirt face wash onto your toothbrush and only realise your mistake after you've spat.

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RESULT!!!

I love the fact that my house is so close to the bottleshop. Or to be more precise, I love the fact that my house is so close to the Bottleshop Guy. Tall and dark with the cutest grin ever.

I ‘found’ him a couple of weeks ago when we ran dry one night. So it was off to the friendly neighbourhood bottleshop to restock our fridge. And it was there, in the coldroom, that the Bottleshop Guy caught me trying to lift a slab of beer. His protective instincts must have instantly flared up when he saw a wee Asian lass struggling because he immediately rushed over to help. Or maybe he just didn't want to end up sweeping broken glass. Whatever. I was just happy to admire the way he effortlessly hefted the case up to his shoulder. (Which reminds me, I need to suggest to the bottleshop management that they make it mandatory for their employees to wear sleeveless shirts.)

Soon, I was finding every excuse to make a trip to the bottleshop. Which wasn't as easy as it sounds - I couldn't go by myself as that would have been much too obvious, especially since I never buy my own drinks if I can help it. Luckily enough, I have an Alcoholic Scotsman for a neighbour, and I started tagging along every time he needed supplies. In fact, he's not allowed to go there without me anymore. Not that he's got anything to complain about, now he's got an extra pair of hands to help carry the bottles home.

Anyway, it was during one of these trips that the Slurpy Cow made an appearance.

"Darling!" she flounced up when she saw the Alcoholic Scotsman. "It's been AGES! Give us a kiss!"

*Slurp slurp*

"Hey, don't I get one too?" the Bottleshop Guy joked as I turned to him in horror.

"Of course you do!" mooed the Slurpy Cow.

*Slurp slurp*

"Slag!" I glared at her while berating myself at the same time, "Damn, why didn't I think of that?!"

I stayed away for the next few days, miserable and heartbroken. Why did he ask her for the kiss and not me? I'm the one who's meant to be the Bad Taste Bitch! I was hurting, and I probably still would be if it wasn't for the Alcoholic Scotsman who finally got fed up with my whinging and dragged me back there.

"Hullo you, where have you been?"

He missed me! Squee! I would have thrown myself at him and begged him to take me home in that instant, but the Alcoholic Scotsman managed to grab my arm in time. Still holding on, he started hunting for a pack of Smirnoff DBs while I gazed lovestruck at the Bottleshop Guy's reflection in the fridge door.

And then, as we he paid,

"So, I never did get your name. I'm Adam."

YES! I'm this close to getting him.

And his bottleshop discount.

________________________________________________________________

And now pics from the Alcoholic Scotsman's 21st birthday celebrations.

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The whistle sounds. Kick-off.

It's Curtin University vs. Fremantle United in the Women's Night Series. I've been training for three weeks now and this is my debut in the Curtin soccer jersery. The pressure's on.

I grind my studs into the grass nervously. Someone mentioned earlier that Freo had beaten another team in a previous game. 7-nil. Real confidence boost there.

We have possession. And I start yelling:

"C'mon, Hayls! Pass it! PASS IT!"

"Take a shot, Ash! Take a fucking shot!!!"

I'm not alone. I can hear screaming from a spectator as well:

"REF, YOU WANKER!!! That was a penalty, a PENALTY!!!"

"Offside! It's obviously offside!!! ARE YOU BLIND?!!!"

Soon enough, the Irish Freo coach decides to join in as well:

"??????????" (Sorry, I can't translate Irish.)

The opposing players look confused. Evidently, they don't understand Irish either.

The game is getting intense. We're slightly better, I think, but they're definitely making us work for it. I'm sweating already.

Suddenly, I spot a defender bearing down on our unsuspecting striker.

"MAN ON, JO--"

Our coach cuts in. "You're on in five minutes. Get ready."

Eh? I look up in surprise from my seat on the sideline. Something's wrong here - I only signed up for the jersey and the hot guy who always comes along to support the team. I can't play! I just stubbed my toe on a doorstop this morning!

But it's too late. The ref is signalled and a defender jogs over. And before I can fake an injury, I'm shoved onto the pitch.

Bugger.

Or not. Because twenty minutes later, we win. 2-1. And I didn't cock up at all. In fact, I'm quite proud of myself. The training sessions have obviously paid off.

Maybe I'll even get to touch the ball next time.

________________________________________________________________

Soccer-unrelated, but here're some pics from Daniel's grad party.

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In response to an email mentioning a hot Mauritian guy from soccer:

Jamie

can't you find a nice Chinese boy and be happy??? wish I had married you off before sending you to perth.

Love - Dad

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