Let's get one thing straight, I am no hot piece of ass. When I go out of an evening, I am not bombarded by men trying to buy me drinks or dance with me, and it's perfectly fine because it means more time to dance to Beyonce and less chance to end up in a ditch blazed on rohypnol. However, equally, I am not a susan boyle lookalike so on occasion, I do find myself in situations which require a speedy 'I'll be back in a second' and a mad dash to the nearest toilets.
Last night, I found myself in a predicament. Being a top pal and excellent wingman, I was very happy to see my friend had managed to score a hottie. Less happy was I, to discover I was now stuck with his absolutely plastered mate. An awkward dance or two later and I was beginning to panic that my friend was not fully understanding the urgent nature of the HELPHELPHELPHELP I had been mouthing. You know when you play Swingball, and you hit the ball too hard that it flies manically round, each time looming dangerously close to your face? You know how you have to dodge back each time in order to avoid a head on collision with a mass of wool and rubber? This guy was my Swingball. But I didn't have a bat.
I'm not hating on him. Sobered up and in the right situation he's probably lovely, but drunk, in a club, when I just wanted to sing 212, I was not interested. Even turning around didn't help, how am I supposed to throw my arms up in the air when instructed by Taio Cruz, if they're preoccupied with batting away hands that are roaming around like a blind person looking for dropped keys?!
'We'll be back in a second' inevitably followed, and I dashed off, ordering my friend to return immediately as her catch didn't have the eyes of a murderer. Just call me Cupid.
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On another note, this all happened at the beach party, complete with ageing, Hawaiian shirt wearing, totally brilliant beach boys tribute band. This is me and Jess, getting all beachy and stuff.
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