I committed the ultimate sin on Saturday night. I left my wing man…
No I’ve not gone and tried to chat a man up using only lines from the film Top Gun again (not that it worked the first time and now The Boy is in Afghanistan which apparently is a safer place to be than with me when I’ve been drinking – cheek).
No, Saturday night I actually left my wing man flying solo which led to him leaving the club early and disappointed and me waking up to find a dubious looking flowery shirt on my bedroom floor and something snoring beside me. Usually I spend Sunday morning’s hiding under the duvet in shame, this time I couldn’t hide under there, something else was under there. So I dragged myself off to the sofa to try and piece together what on earth had gone on the night before.
One thing I was happily aware of. I was wearing clothes. And not the clothes I had been wearing out. I was wearing a set of very unattractive PJs with the words ‘cheeky monkey’ emblazoned over the top. Smooth move, I have on the sort of PJs you wear only when you live alone or are in a very long term relationship and I STILL have a semi naked man in my bed. So he either has a weird PJ fetish or we were so drunk all I wanted was sleep and gave up trying to impress him. So how did he end up there?
From the haziness that is only achieved from drinking wine, champagne, cocktails, jaegers and Alco pops all in one night I worked out the time line. Four of us had gone out so my pack was made up of an old school friend, the Token Boy and the usual Partner in Crime. I had been sat on the smoking terrace of the club with my friend and the Token Boy after a long and sweaty session on the dance-floor. It was the sort of night where we’d ended up on the stage thinking we could dance like Beyonce when in actually fact we looked more like the Teletubbies. Token Boy had to drag us off said stage and hence we were outside chilling out with him. PIC was already missing in action at this point but that’s standard procedure for any night out as she’s like a meerkat with radar for a single man. School friend engages a random person in conversation and starts giving him life advice so the token boy and I joke that we’re now each other’s wing man as we’re the last two in the game. Famous last words as within 10 minutes I have flown off. I didn’t actually mean to. I was on my way to the bar via the ladies and found the PIC chatting away to what can only be described as Man Mountain. This guy was so tall he had snow on his head and as the PIC is only around 5 foot 5 I found this fascinating. And then I spotted the friend. Man Mountain’s wing man was sat on his own, looking bored and wearing quite a hideous shirt. It would have made great feature wallpaper it just didn’t work as a shirt. So I told him so. I think my opening line was “is that a bet or did your girlfriend buy it in the hope it repels other women?”
Sometimes I need to say things in my head and not out loud.
It didn’t seem to do me too much harm though as we end up chatting for the rest of the night. Well, him chatting and me being sarcastic and rude because I’m drunk and shouldn’t be allowed to talk to strangers at the best of times.
I see my wing man stood at the bar watching me make more and more of an impression on this guy until he’s had enough and decided to call it a night. I suppose watching me talk to people in that state is like watching a slow motion car crash.
Token Boy leaves alone. Last time we went out he’d decided to make it his mission for the rest of the year to find a cougar. A challenge I should have been helping him with instead of pretending to be the fashion police.
And then the night goes downhill. I decide to invite everyone back to mine. For some reason I decide to pour a bottle of water in shirt guy’s lap, we proceed to drink everything in my flat, my neighbors complain that Britney Spears should not be played at that volume at 3am and PIC disappears with Man Mountain whilst I get shirt guy out of his wet jeans and bad shirt and into a pink fleece onsie!
I must have gone to bed at about 4.30am which would be fine on a normal Saturday night but 6 hours later I have to up and ready to meet the gang to go to the rugby. So you can imagine the pain I felt when I woke up at 9am to find the shirt that was to blame lying by the side of the bed. Not to mention the debris in my living room and kitchen from the small bomb that went off at some point in the night.
So moral of the story: never leave your wing man. Had I have stuck with my wing man I’d have had a normal hangover and not woken up still drunk and feeling sick; my flat would have been the clean and organized haven it was prior to going out; my neighbours wouldn’t have been building a voodoo doll of me for waking them up; I wouldn’t have had to make polite and embarrassed conversation with a rather attractive man that I slagged off all night (and therefore he obviously didn’t ask for my number) and with any luck there’d have been a happy cougar in the world because she’s been introduced to the Token Boy.
So if the Token Boy is reading this I’m sorry… and next weekend don’t let me out of your sight!