Today, I hate St. Patrick’s Day.
I also hate birthdays being in the middle of weekends.
Who had such a dumb fcking idea?? Whoever it was deserves to be dragged out into the street and shot, but not before I kick them around a bit.
If I regain an ability to exist past simple survival techniques today I will post something more comprehensible about the weekend of…of…fck, of my typical bluddy birthday celebrations, no matter how old I get. Right now I am just going to let rambled typing soothe me.
It started with Guinness at 6pm Friday. It finished with a shattered wine glass of gin and tonic on an Irishman’s kitchen floor as he tried to finally get all of us out of his house once and for all last night at 8pm. We’d been in his house (me only in my underwear & occasionally a towel actually. ….actually hold on….what was that about?!!?!?) since 3am Saturday night.
I was asked to leave a gay club. Along with my… uhhh… new friend. By a very big scary bouncer. For participating in too-heterosexual behaviour. Second time this has happened in my life.
I made complete strangers group together into duets/ trios & sing me happy birthday.
Before I would stand on a chair to remind the establishment that it was my birthday.
If you were at the Jolly at any stage this weekend there is a good chance you met me. I was the chick who, on the Friday night, would’ve tapped you politely on the shoulder and with big eyes quietly said, “It’s my birthday”. And on the Saturday would’ve bounded up to you in my leprechaun hat and said, “Hey Hey It’s My Birthday!!” and then either bounded off or demanded smooches.
Not a single friend or family member who was sms’d at about 10pm on Saturday night being begged to help me, came to my rescue. And rather sent rude replies saying all sounded as it should be.
Except for my mother who ordered me to now go home and to bed.
I flashed my gay friend in the middle of the Jolly Rodger. And I am not talking about flashing him my breasts. We are both still scared.
My model kept trying to visit me to say happy birthday but never materialised.
My Irish friend, while trying to sleep away his hangover all of Sunday managed to find out every last sordid detail about mine and my cute chickie friend’s sex lives as we spoke over him. And then we would tweak his nipples. (Oh, and Jam, as you requested, she gave me kisses, with tongue. And then she bit my back. I am not even going to explain this. But, unfortunately for any bi-curiosity of ours, it is not as it sounds).
My friend M and I said “fuckity fuckity fuckity fuckity fuck” a lot. Followed by “you’re a fooiken eeejit”, in response and admirance of the amusing Irish stand up comedy show we watched at Monte on Friday evening. Then my friend M FINALLY snogged my friend W….I have been engineering that for several months now so I am quite pleased with myself.
At about 2am Friday night, after we had aimed for Catz Pyjamas & instead ended up in next door’s gay Oh Bar, I had some guy trying to help me find the safety pin lost down my top. I looked up & said, “Thank god you’re gay”. He replied, with his entire arm down my top by this stage, groping about for the pin, “I’m not gay”.
I got into a heated debate at the Colony with a strange cute man that it was still my birthday in London for two more hours and so this allowed me to still claim it and celebrate appropriately. The sms’s from London friends deeming this true did not work as proof to him.
I do not like the drink of Guinness mixed with Champagne.
I did not get “poked in the whiskers”. But thank you for all friends who sms’d asking.
I was reprimanded by a Melville car guard that when I got up to such things in a car in the future, that me & the guy go and park in the parking lot, as he does not want a lovely girl like me to get hi-jacked. I stared at him in shock & embarrassment. To which he replied, “Did you not see me walk past your car (….[this part finally deleted]…I actually cannot believe I am typing & publishing this)”. I mumbled something and headed home.
I crawled into my bed at 6.40am on Saturday morning. And then had to be up by 10am for brunch.
Fournos will not serve you alcohol in the morning. Even if it is your birthday. Even if you brought your own drinks along. Even if you are with an Irishman on his country’s national day. Wiser probably.
I had Austrian sms’ing me from Austria saying “Happy Birthday. Apparently you have a nice rack”.
I do not know any Austrians.
I have voice mails and sms’s from people I do not know wishing me a happy birthday and that they were trying to find my house to celebrate with me. I do not know a Candice. And who is Jono?
Me and the other birthday person phoned my Singapore brother. Who refused to answer his phone. So we phoned him several more times. Then we phoned Australia. Then we phoned the United States. None of them would answer South African phone calls.
As the sun was setting on Sunday night I had some 55 year old American man sitting heavily on me as I curled into a foetal position and begged for help, but my giggling didn’t seem to convince anyone of my distress.
One friend claims he arrived from Chile on Friday night just for my birthday. Another friend claims he flew in from Geneva just for my birthday. I think they might be lying, but seeing them again, and for my birthday means I am more than happy to believe them.
Some strange Irishman bought my friends drinks, and then handed her R50. She still feels a bit dirty.
I would try to sit quietly every once in a while and just be at peace, mainly because I had run out of words in general.
The other birthday person of this weekend just tried to mail me a few photos of events. Each & every photo attached to his mail is the same as the one before. Exactly the same. Just a different name. Either I have lost it, or he has.
I think it is both of us.
I have a terrible underwear sunburn, covered over with jerseys as it seem winter has just attacked.
My boss is laughing at me, but refuses to allow me to go home, but did request in this morning’s staff meeting that the other staff leave me alone for a few days.
I am certain this more to be said, and more chaos to be recalled, like the thousand people drinking in my garden at some stage this weekend. But now I need to cry out of exhaustion in a corner.