***Another blog you might not want to read if you're easily offended with jokes about anything PC...
I wake up with the sunshine blinking through the blinds, wondering where I am for a second. Then I realise the carnage (and the vodka) from the night before. My pain receptors wake up and smash me in the eyesockets while I try to work out if I actually did lick a sponge during the night, or whether it just felt like that. I groan a bit and stumble out of bed in search of tea.
I find everyone in the lounge. I am greeted by the sight of The Geordie, a six-foot-something bloke, wrapped up in The Blonde's baby pink slanket. He'd kindly let me share his marital bed with The Blonde while he passed out on the sofa. At first I felt this was a very kind gesture, within ten minutes I'd be thinking otherwise. I take the piss heartily out of The Geordie before The Blonde merrily announces,
"Morning love, sorry but I felt you up in the night. I thought you were The Geordie and had a little grope."
I am too hungover to process this information but I vaguely feel it's not the way to break to a person that they were accidentally molested in the night by their best friend. I open my mouth to protest, or ask what the fuck she's talking about, when she continues.
"You see, Geordie has a nice full bum and it's got a lovely curve and I always give it a rub [she demonstrates the action in case I don't fully grasp the ins and outs of my sexual assault] when I want a cuddle. But then I realised something didn't feel right and I lifted the covers and it was you."
The Geordie interjects, "Ah, was it hairy?"
Not only have I been a bit violated, but I'm also being mocked while I found out about it. I feel like I am in an episode of Jeremy Kyle. But with slankets.
The Blonde: "...I either rub his bottom or I put my hand up around his chest, so you're lucky I didn't grab a hand full of your tits."
Me: "Lucky you didn't try give him a bloody reacharound," I mumble while hunting for tea to wash away the shame and confusion.
Back in the lounge, everyone's monged out and Mr Lincoln for some reason has a towel on his lap. The Blonde is on surprisingly good form considering the night before and mocks him about having an erection. He gets grumpy and fires back,
"I've got a receding hairline too, you want to have a pop at that too?"
We piss ourselves.
None of us are capable of much except goading The Geordie to go and get us sausage baps from the cafe, but first we flick through some tv. The Hollyoaks omnibus comes on with the dude in the corner signing for the deaf audience.
The Blonde quickly yells, "Turn it over, The Geordie can't handle it! Turn it over!"
I ask what's going on and the Geordie explains that he feels physically sick when they have a signer and bizarrely can't cope with it. We then discover that Mr Lincoln can't handle the TV volume on odd numbers. The Geordie affirms that this is normal and admits he has to have it in multiples of five. I am searching around for signs that I accidentally went to sleep in a Special Hospice and woke up in the Day Room where the residents wear slankets and have comforting towels on their laps in case of accidents.
When I'm feeling delicate, I can't cope with randomness. Or stairs. Or noise. The Blonde, sitting by the window comes out with a classic Blonde line as a man jogs past.
"There's a man running! Oh, he's stopped now."
After some restorative tea and sausage bap, I drag myself to the shower to cleanse my pores of the alcohol from the evening before. As I'm getting ready in the spare room, attempting to mask the hangover with expensive makeup, I overhear The Geordie,
"I don't like contemporary individual dance but I do like a dance troupe."
Add this to the previous evidence that he's the World's Most Rubbish Gay Man. And the fact he made me a brew in a Zac Efron mug earlier.
As I try and bury the guilt of the sexual misdemeanour during the night, it seems The Blonde is hellbent on telling everyone we encounter throughout the day. This prompts The Geordie, in a cab, to say loudly,
"Point on the doll to where she touched you" and they all piss themselves again.
The Edinburgh lot are a hardcore group of Northerners, so I get dragged to the pub again 'for lunch'. What they failed to mention was the two pints of Tennants for starters. We go to the Bank bar which is where I have sat with Crayons and Slats before, crying our eyes out, after being thoroughly terrified and distressed after embarking on the Auld Reekie tour of Niddry Street vaults. I felt like I was going to faint and be sick, and there was definitely something touching the back of my legs. (That time, it wasn't The Blonde.)
We sat in a little back ante-room before the Bank Hotel reception. The dark wood panelling was pleasing to my sensitive eyes and I was still very much in my hungover state. Fittingly, Stone Roses were playing as we all have a Manchester connection and we smile at each other. Then, a guy comes out quite forcefully of the wood-pannelled door behind Mr Lincoln and catches his chair, we guffaw as he shoots the guy a look like he's actually going to kill him.
The Geordie is happily tucking into the beer again as I nurse my lager shandy, he's had about a third of his pint,
"I'm almost ready for my next pint!" he exclaims then berates me for not having the 'Red Stripe loosener' him and The Blonde had at the flat. I feel queasy.
We wander along the Royal Mile and I gulp in bracing Scottish air and take some shots in the gorgeous winter sunlight. The Geordie perpetuates his own legend by exclaiming that he once got lost in the bridal section of Jenners department store.
Just to fuck with my addled brain a bit more, the lunch venue is Deacon Brodie's tavern; a traditional Scottish restaurant with tartan carpet and steep stairs into a dark, crowded restaurant room. I almost wobble over with stimulation.
Over lunch, Grumpy Scot and I discuss how The Blonde is a sex molester and The Geordie (due to him fancying very young girl bands) is one of those people who loves kids in the wrong way. In a conversational flourish we couldn't have made up, Grumpy Scot follows on our conclusion that they're a sex crime gang with the opening gambit of,
"I'll tell you a paedophile joke."
I, unthinkingly in the middle of eating my roast and getting a bit giggly, exclaim, "Let me swallow first."
Needless to say I practically spit my beer out all over the table.
We get dragged to a Sports Bar to watch the United game, with joy of joys, really fucking twisty and steep spiral stairs. It takes all my concentration to not fall down them or vomit. As we sit down and discuss what drinks to order, Grumpy Scot tries to be clever and order some pitchers of beer. The Geordie then establishes that he's ordered four two pint pitchers between eight of us. So we may have well all ordered our own drinks.
The Geordie, "Two pint pitchers? That's just a big glass."
The bar is rammed with football revellers and we're sat by a huge screen and massive speakers. I've still not got all my faculties back and am feeling a little under par, and I keep mishearing what people are saying.
Grumpy Scot, who's from a little fishing town outside Edinburgh, mutters something and I say, "what?"
He says it again. "WHAT?"
Ironically he's trying to tell me a joke about a bus full of deaf people but I mishear.
By this time I am utterly confused, close to childish tears and feel really deaf so I simper,
"You're trying to tell me a joke about Musselburgh deaf people...?!"
The Blonde cracks up and I don't even think it's because it was that funny but all three of us were suddenly in hysterics and hooting really loudly. I cried off my eyeliner and couldn't breathe for a good ten minutes.
It develops into 'Musselburgh Deaf Society' and we decide this will be the name of our first album or the company we all run when we're older. At that point, it literally was the funniest thing we'd all ever heard and we periodically creased up, wetting ourselves all afternoon. The rest of the table didn't think it was that funny.
The giddy mood continued as we piled back to The Geordie and The Blonde's flat to get our trackies on and lounge around. The Geordie made us wonderful Orange Grey Goose & tonics and we ordered pizza. I'd already been told in no uncertain terms by him earlier that,
"Seeing as you're stopping with us, you'll do what we do tonight. Dominos and Dancing on Ice."
Fine by me, being a secret ice skating geek and lifelong Torvill & Dean fan. The Blonde and I establish that Christopher Dean, for some unfathomable reason, you would.
We comment on how Sharon Davies is so uber tall, it might have been more entertaining for the viewers if she'd been partnered with a really short male partner.
I pipe up, "Dancing with Dwarves!"
The Geordie outdoes me flawlessly, "Dwarfing on Ice."
There's a lot of discussion as to why they insist on putting Davies in what's essentially a sparkly swimming costume each week. In a quiet moment, everyone is digesting pizza and The Geordie casually says about one of the male skaters,
"He's got the hair of a rapist...."
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