VomitGate

Now, before I moved to London, I assumed that a good 70% of evenings experienced by Londoners' were painfully cool.

I thought, they probably can't help but glamorously sip away at Mojitos in Soho, on a sunny Tuesday night, then accidently wander into a Kasabian after party. It's not their fault. That shit just happens to them.

I've spent the past eight months patiently waiting for my quintessentially London moments. Did I nearly have one, when a fat woman hit me in the nose with her arse? Sure. Was I almost there when I walked passed Les Dennis, and my friend said, 'There's Les Dennis!' And I said, 'Who's Dennis?' Pretty much.

And then it happened, and it was sexier, and more fabulous than I ever thought possible.

Don't get jealous. It's one of those emotions that rots you from the inside. Nasty stuff.

I'll set the scene. (Have also changed names to protect identities).

Five of us are out on a girls' night in Shoreditch. We've reserved a private table, and we've booked a taxi. (If you haven't noticed, things are already bang on, stinking of London awesomeness).

There's GingerNinja (please note that the woman in question has no martial art abilities which I have witnessed, or has even shown me evidence of stealth, but I like the rhyme.)

BarbicanBabe.

I'm really struggling at this point because there's a second ginger girl. *Bashes head*. We'll call her StrawberryBlonde. The final character (aside from moi) in this night of almost unbearable London chic, is called ZumbaQueen.

I know that they all sound like really bad nicknames on a dating site (some of which would have drastically more success than others), but you'll just have to deal with it.

SO

It's 7:30pm. BarbicanBabe has already knocked one of my six White Russian Happy Hour cocktails onto the floor. But it's okay, because we're in London, and we just don't give a shit about anything.

10pm. Happy hour has ended. ZumbaQueen is busting some serious moves. We've made friends with a group of men. I don't know where they're from. They don't speak much English. Roll on, good times.

11pm.  BarbicanBabe has had to evacuate the premises because she can't stay awake.

11:30pm. We're in the nightclub, in the basement. StrawberryBlonde and I have the dance floor to ourselves, and we look like we've attended numerous professional dance lessons. ZumbaQueen is laughing. That's okay. Let her laugh. We can't all be Queen's of Zumba. It occurs me, as we step up our routine to counter accusations that our moves are more hilarious, than they are smooth, that ZumbaQueen might merely be shaking as she throws up.

This is indeed the case.

It seems she has thrown up next to our pile of coats.

Sadly for GingerNinja, her coat had slipped to the floor, and is, as she herself described 'marinated'. ZumbaQueen is asked to leave, and we loyally escort her out. StawberryBlonde puts her coat on outside and discovers that it too, is covered in sick. She wears it anyway. It's very, very cold.

12pm. GingerNinja emerges from the bathroom. In trying to clean the coat (which it turns out is borrowed from BarbicanBabe), she has thrown up. Goes back to bathroom.

Vomited - 2
Wearing vomit - 2

12:05am - Man with strange plaited hat approaches StrawberryBlonde and says, 'Why did you look at me like that, you c**t?' Then turns to me, 'And you, you smiled at me.'

'Yes,' I say, with the level of confidence that only Gin, vodka, wine and rum can provide. 'I smiled, because I like your hat.'

'Are you joking?'

'No. It's fantastic. What do you do?'

'I decorate prisons.'

GREAT. After twenty minutes of telling him, in very specific detail, why I like his hat, he hugs us, and leaves.

12:30am - We've been in a pub for 5minutes. Someone says to me, 'Your friend is throwing up outside.' I go take a look at ZumbaQueen.

Vomited - Still 2
Wearing vomit - Now 3

I decide it's time for ZumbaQueen and I to depart.

And it only takes us three buses, and two hours to get home, which is lovely. Mostly it's lovely because ZumbaQueen passes out, and I hold her, so she doesn't fall into aisle, and get some time to reflect on how far I've come in life.

Number of girls who were not sick, or had sick on them/their possessions - 1/5

My secret weapon, is that I was sick the night before, and thus probably got it all out of my system.



It's almost too much.