Saturday. I wake up to The Blonde bringing me a cup of tea in bed with The Geordie behind her singing "We brought you teeeeeaaaaaaa!" I ask him what the fuck he's doing and he looks at me like I'm stupid and says,
"I'm singing the tea song." I don't question him any more.
We hang out in their room drinking tea piecing the night back together, I wonder exactly what I did to my fingers as the bruising is now quite impressive. They put the Comic Relief dancing programme on to catch up from the night before. Noel Fielding comes on doing his amazing Kate Bush routine.
The Geordie looks like he's been struck by the most amazing insight.
"PUFFIN! It's YOU! You look like Noel Fielding dressed as Kate Bush!"
I find this slightly complimentary since when I first saw him doing the routine I was sexually confused as I find him hot in real life, and found him to be an attractive woman. I'm not sure what this says about me.
We slowly get ready after haranguing the poor Geordie to go and get us brekkie from the local cafe, and head out again into town. We go to a bar. I bet no-one saw that coming, eh?
The rugby is on, we order brilliant Bloody Marys and settle in for the afternoon. The music is something ambient and mediocre. The Geordie pipes up again to me.
"This sounds like your sort of shit - it's got lots of 'wooooos' in it." The Blonde pisses herself and I glare at him. It seems unfair to engage in a serious music debate when he's at a natural disadvantage since he has the music taste of a thirteen year old girl.
The Blonde studies her Bloody Mary. "I love celery. I love cucumber. Is cucumber a vegetable?" I pat her on the head and we carry on with our conversation. As long as you humour her and feed her the occasional alcoholic beverage and packet of crisps, she's fine in public.
The Geordie studies the rugby and works out the implications of each team winning.
"That'll be good for England!" The Blonde exclaims brightly to every scenario he mentions.
"Are you just saying 'that'll be good for England' for every result I say?" he asks.
The Blonde smiles and nods brightly like a good little wife.
A new friend of mine, The Thinker, comes to meet us for a drink. He's not drinking so I am scared as to what he'll make of those two mentals, but it all goes very well. The Blonde chooses to divulge her waxing story within the first ten minutes of meeting him, and he doesn't run away so I'm satisfied he's not too scared. We get on to the subject of his teetotalism. The Blonde ponders,
"Do you miss not drinking?"
The Thinker and I look at each other.
"Do you mean, 'does he miss drinking'?"
The Blonde looks earnest.
"No, I mean, does he miss not drinking?"
"But he doesn't drink... how can he miss it when that's what he's doing - ie. NOT drinking?"
We go round in circles for a good half hour, I even draw a diagram of The Thinker WITH drinks and without drinks, and still she doesn't get it. She's a bright girl really, but this really foxed her.
I apologise to The Thinker for some of the lairy conversation. He says, having met me twice before, once on a thirtieth birthday party weekend in a big house,
"I now associate you with the nickname Spaz, being too wasted to play tabletennis with me, and now, intimate waxing stories."
Thanks chums. I say I'm embarrassed about being too inebriated to play ping pong very well.
"I didn't realise you were that drunk, I just thought you were REALLY REALLY shit at it."
We stop discussing my sporting ability and get on to chatting about the recent horrific events in Japan, and The Blonde contributes her stellar social opinion.
"Tsunamis are so powerful aren't they? It's scary. Do you think there'll be pirates?"
We all nod soberly.
She carries on.
"It makes me worry for us on our sailing holiday later in the year. I actually worry about pirates EVERY day you know."
We ignore her.
Later that evening, we meet up with other dear friends for an excellent night in The Standard. It involves feeling No'rn Ir'on's considerable breasts, doing her hair in the middle of the pub and The Grumpy Scot almost crying with laughter at the Modern Toss iPhone app while we're outside smoking. It also involves another horrific story of The Blonde and The Geordie's sex life.
"Oh Puffin, when you'd passed out in the spare room, The Geordie and I got a bit amorous. I normally have lube in my room but I'd put it away on account of you coming to stay. Well, it wasn't to hand so I used my Clarins Flashbalm."
We sit around looking horrified.
"It really DOES brighten and tighten!" she exclaims brightly.
Sunday morning I nick some of her Flashbalm in the bathroom in a hungover haze, then suddenly the story came back to me.
My face feels violated.
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