**This may be my most potty-mouthed and inappropriate blog post yet so if you're nice and you don't swear and you don't talk about things that are guaranteed to make you go to Hell, you probably shouldn't read on.
A triple celebration. A journey almost thwarted by a sick passenger requiring paramedics; a suicide attempt off a viaduct in Durham and the disabled passenger alarm being set off. A sunny, crisp long weekend in a glorious city. It was bound to be epic.
The journey was a mastercourse in overcoming obstacles. I thought I might implode after the three incidents above, so when a guy began having the loudest conversation ever with his companion, and then decided to go through every single one of his shitty ringtones, I lost it.
Me: "Are you actually going to go through every ringtone on your handset?"
He thought for a second. ".....yes."
Shit. I hadn't seen that one coming.
Me: "Well..... could you not since there do happen to be other people in this carriage and we don't appreciate it."
He looked sheepish finally and gave in. I felt like punching the air. Woohoo, I spoke up for the people! In your face, cretin.
The weekend had been carefully, militarily planned to be a surprise for The Blonde's 30th by The Geordie. Someone had already let slip I was coming, (good one) so The Blonde was expecting me now, but not the party and all the other guests.
I arrived at St Vincent's pub in lovely Stockbridge and met The Blonde, The Geordie and their other guests Mr Lincoln and Mini Haha. We all knew each other from previous work, so I'd been sat at the table literally a matter of seconds with a V&T before the conversation turned to Basshunter's self-proclaimed self-pleasuring record of twenty five in one day. The boys compared records and what their mates had boasted to them, while I tried to stop the aural trauma by cooing over the cutest puppy ever, a Jack Russell called Bella who was chomping on a toy on her owner's lap on the next table. At this point I worried what the night would bring if it was 4pm and we'd already plumbed such depths. As it turns out, it was the most quote-filled weekend I've ever experience where there were several points that I thought might die of laughter. The dynamic of our communication is essentially hurling abuse at each other.
We trailed home from the pub to go and hang out at The Blonde and The Geordie's new flat, took the piss out of Mr Lincoln for having a little suitcase on wheels that made him look like an air steward and generally arsed about like overexcited children.
The Blonde: "Look, look at my little car, isn't she cute?!" She's very proud of her sporty little Smartcar.
Mr Lincoln: "....I'm going to piss on it."
Someone else piped up that he might in fact try and break Basshunter's record in the vicinity of The Blonde's car. At this very point we were also being directed which way to walk to get home.
Quick as flash she hit back,
"If your jizz goes anywhere near my car... turn left, dickhead." We fell about laughing as we knew that this was just the beginning of memorable, alcohol-fuelled quips to come.
Back at the flat we had a tour and cracked open the champagne to celebrate The Blonde's 30 years of being fabulous. I gave her a card thanking her for being such a good friend and she started welling up. The Blonde, whose 'tough-love' was famous at work, the woman who would tell you to sort your life out and stop crying like a little girl if you had a weepy moment. I then presented her with the photo album I'd made with pictures of us and our mutual friends over the last rollercoaster two years. She fully sobbed. I actually called our awesome friend Crayons to tell her "I'd cracked the blonde! I did it! She does have a heart!"
We drank more champagne and messed around in the flat and Mr Lincoln inexplicably set fire to his breadstick before eating it. I started taking snaps of the boys sat on the sofa. I showed them the shots,
The Geordie: "Oooh I look muscular in that one....not in a rapey way though."
Mr Lincoln: "Yeah, in a muscular dystrophy way."
The Blonde thought we were going to a posh Italian for a small civilised dinner. We got dolled up, The Geordie spent more time in the bathroom than anyone.
"Spray hair wax!.... Not just for gays!"
We examined the facts. He is obsessed with The Saturdays, Alphabeat and Little Boots and slips into worryingly rehearsed-looking song and dance routines with the Blonde, apropos of nothing. They're like Same Difference off that crappy talent show the other year. They segue into perfect harmonies and he maintains his stage-school eye contact as he sings emphatically at you. The only thing about The Geordie is that he isn't sexually attracted to men. This, we decided, makes him the Most Rubbish Gay ever.
Once we'd dragged him away from the mirror, we made our way into Edinburgh centre, to 'stop off for a quick drink' in 99 Hanover St before going to the restaurant. What The Blonde didn't know was that lots of her friends had travelled from all over the UK to gather behind a black curtain at the back of the bar. We went through 'Ooooh where shall we sit?' deception and shoved her into a room of her closest friends where she promptly burst into tears again. Yessssss, twice in one day.
Everyone had a lovely time eating and drinking, mainly drinking which was my mistake. We had lovely cupcakes and I got snapped eating one which has now got me a reputation as a podgy Florence & The Machine cupcake-eating lookalike. We then went on to Lulu's club which was a short walk around the corner. The Blonde had a few drinks in her by this point and was wearing perilously high stilettos so marched off to find a taxi the few hundred yards. We left her asking a cab driver who'd obviously questioned the distance, "Do you know who I am? It's my birthday!"
Lulu's involved blurry photos of everyone getting more and more drunk. I found myself with a vodka tonic in my hand all the time, which was rather pleasant. I don't remember that much of it except the music being loud electro house, and having to yell to have conversations with people. Or else get a little too intimately close just to make polite conversation about what you do for a living etc. I do recall being sat opposite the drunken Grumpy Scot and both of us taking it in turns to shout an In The Loop quote at each other then giggling a lot,
"I would love to give you... a long, hard, disciplinary hearing..."
I decided that wading through the crowd to get to the bar was a really good idea at gone 2am. I made my way to the front then stood there for a good fifteen minutes, being ignored by the bar man. I was kind of appalled to realise that the girl at the bar next to me was being felt up, possibly more, by the guy behind her and he was pratically involving me in this because it was so crowded. As The Geordie pointed out later on, it was an inadvertant threesome by proxy. Thanks, Edinburgh.
I started to get pissed off with waiting at the bar and began considering showering the people next to me with ice, but luckily The Blonde came and found me to go home. By this point in the evening she had what The Geordie refers to as 'the wild hair and wild eyes.' We stumbled outside and waited for The Blonde to remove her shoes to carry home. She was wearing no coat and no shoes but gamely hobbled on, avoiding glass and gravel whilst clinging on to Mr Lincoln. Halfway down the hill, she turned to The Geordie and said simply, "I need your shoes." I was actually moved as he didn't bat an eyelid, didn't question it and quietly stepped out of his shoes and put them in front of her feet. That's love that is.
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