Drunk and Disorderly

Supposedly my drunken impersonation of a sober cat was spectacular.  Supposedly my drunken question asking all my friends why they had gotten so fat was also spectacular, but for entirely different reasons.  Supposedly it’s considered impolite to ask someone you’ve just met at a dinner party what its like being reduced to only one testicle after testicular cancer and completely inappropriate to then inquire as to whether his lone solider has made up for the dip in volume production.  And supposedly my continued ability to ‘examine’ women’s breasts without them slapping me in the face is an extremely coveted and completely non-transferable skill.  At times my behaviour even has me shaking my head in disbelief.

Of my 40 hrs in Canberra I spent over half of them intoxicated and the other half recovering and overeating.  Also, my recollection is that she spilt the champagne over me and therefore no apology was needed.  Actually, if I’m being entirely honest, my recollection only extends to remembering that at one time on Friday evening my left side was dry and then an uncertain time later my left side was wet.

Saturday morning started very well and surprisingly hangover free.  At the time I was convinced that the greasy chips and gravy shared on the way home from clubbing had helped out with that.  Unfortunately within an hour of waking and after studiously cleaning the chicken poo covered pavers outside in preparation for an impending BBQ my absent hangover came crashing in.  I was given alcohol and painkillers to deal with the situation.  The prescribed cure worked wonders.  The friend who I stayed with has turned an entire room in his house into a brewery in an attempt to help curb his alcoholism.  I should elaborate, to curb the expense related to his alcoholism.  Fifty cents a beer is a bargain.  I must admit that his amazing ginger beer made me weak at the knees and I can’t wait for my next trip down when I get to try his apple cider.

Friends from the Friday night drink fest failed to turn up to the Saturday lunch BBQ binge.  I rang to find out where they were and was exhaustedly informed by one friend that he was busy cleaning up the contents of his stomach from his lounge room carpet.  My few remaining sober brain cells made the logical conclusion that this meant he wouldn’t be making lunch.  It was an excessive weekend.

Feeling a little sad on the trip back to Sydney I realised how much I’ve missed some of my good mates and our warm and fuzzy and comfortingly familiar relationships.  I have no intention of moving back to Canberra, but I’m already planning my next trip down.  I’ll just need a few weeks to recover.


Broyal Mascroft Graces

After three months of Middle Eastern and Baltic globetrotting I arrived back in London this week for a final taste of UK summer and sunshine before heading home to Australia for winter.  Unsurprisingly since landing in London I have only seen brief glimpses of the sun due to the exceptional amount of rain that has been pummelling the city.  I did warn everyone that summer would finish when I turned up.

My sister had excitedly booked me for a secret event on Saturday.  The secret event turned out to be the Royal Ascot Races.  My initial response was “yay! What’s that?”, followed by me asking if I could wear shorts and flipflops.  The majority of my clothing had been shipped back to Australia three months earlier and the poor selection of clothes I had in my backpack were all looking the worse for wear.  Luckily the friend who now lives in my old room had a snazzy suit that fitted pretty well.  Although his red leather tie and limited edition boots were a little small for my liking I still proudly wore both – mainly because I didn’t have any other options.

We caught the overground train to Ascot – as did everyone else.  Being packed in like sardines, albeit very well dressed and polite sardines, was quite a sweaty yet amusing experience.  My sister’s dress had the misfortune of getting stuck in the train doors when they closed.  While she attempted not to rip the dress in between bouts of laughter her breasts made a valiant leap for freedom.  In a solid win for her dignity she caught them at the last moment.  Finally arriving at Ascot we all peeled ourselves out of the train and marched to the venue, where friends were found, bets were made and alcohol was bought.

Half way into our first bottle of overpriced champagne I started to truly appreciate the tragic state of fashion on display.  I was also quite vocal in my appreciation.  What was even worse was when the tragic fashion spoke.  Your mothers would be so proud.  I have never felt so ashamed for the female gender.  For every elegant and appropriate dress worn gracefully there was a lurid coloured strip of synthetic cloth sparsely stretched to breaking point over curves that I can only assume were meant to have been alluring.  Personally I prefer a little bit of guesswork when figuring out what someone has had for breakfast. Maybe travelling through the middle east for three months and getting used to women concealing considerably more of their bodies from the naked eye has turned me prudish.  Although I actually think that some of the female fashion in the Middle East that consists of simple figure accentuating full length dresses combined with amazingly detailed headscarves is infinitely more alluring, sexual and sensual than ninety percent of what was on display at Ascot.  A Little bit of imagination can go a long way.

Two particular dresses caught my attention over the course of the day.  The first dress I saw on multiple women in multiple colours.  Unfortunately I only snapped a picture as I was leaving the venue.  The blue black version in this photo was nowhere near as comical as the first version of the dress I saw on display.  The original version was off white with a wide black zipper running down the majority of the back of the dress.

The end of the black zipper created a perfect inverted Y with the bum cheeks of the girl wearing it.  It was a racetrack to her arse crack.  Suffice to say I laughed my arse off.  The second dress, and I use the term dress loosely, was so tight as to ensure its wearer could barely walk in it.  Now what was funny wasn’t the fact she was walking like a penguin, nor the fact that she so clearly had no underwear on, it was the two large tags that could be clearly seen sticking out through the stretched fabric of her dress on the side of her bum.  I could see her price tag.  Oh my god could I see her price tag!  It’s pretty obvious what my drunken catch phrase for the rest of the afternoon became.

After the final race for the day we were all sitting down relaxing, champagne glasses in hand, when a brawl broke out.  What started out as two drunks performing emergency dental work on each other quickly escalated into a full-blown mass orgy of upstanding English gentlemen rolling in the mud, hitting each other politely over the head with chairs and spewing blood over the already sodden ground.  My sister thought yelling at them to break it up would help the situation whereas I decided that the best course of action was to enjoy my front row seats, finish my champagne and soak up the live English culture.

The Royal Ascot Races is a great day out!  Oh and did I mention that I saw the Queen.  Australia for a Republic!