The aftermath of Tequila

Well another week has been and gone and what a week it was; the majority of which was spent in a huge queue in a homemade bin bag poncho and soggy shoes. I’m rocking a husky voice from post-fresher’s flu and thinking I sound bloody sexy/ like a jazz singer. However, whilst plodding around my house wrapped in a duvet laying on various soft surfaces, I have to reflect on the things I have learnt over the past week.

Firstly, I have learnt the power of the band. It is 100% true that if you get any boy who looks like he has dropped out of the Topman catalogue behind a guitar, I will literally be taking off my knickers to throw onstage. At this particular gig, the boy was achingly hipster. He even had a handlebar moustache. I’m pretty sure he was in that video ‘The Dickhead Song’ but I was in love. In my defence, I had enjoyed the wide range of cocktails due to the absolute dream behind the bar. I was basically getting drinks to flirt with him but by cocktail number six, a ‘White Russian’ my skills had become fairly poor. In a desperate attempt to talk to him I asked him to get me some tissue so I could spit out my gum. Charming.

A lesson, one that has been learnt time and time again, but has been confirmed during the past week is that nothing good happens after Tequila shots. Tequila makes grown men wet the bed whilst their unfortunate girlfriends slumber (Cough *Patrick* Cough). Tequila makes you tell acquaintances that you fancy them when you really don’t. Tequila makes you leave the club, where all your friends are, and go have an adventure in Cardiff: Ending up in a tragic 70s club, with about ten people and an average age of approximately thirty five, singing my heart out with a friendly Chinese woman was an odd experience.

Tequila leads to you being kidnapped by your taxi driver. This honestly happened to my housemate, Hannah, who got into a taxi to be told that she looked hungry and was driven to MacDonald’s to be brought twenty chicken nuggets. He then returned her home and gave her a box of Ferrero rochers with his number and a proposition to be bed buddies. This is the sort of weird shit that happens to you after a tequila sunrise. Go home, visit Charlie Sheen in Mamas, delete your phone inbox (to save morning embarrassment- if you can’t see it, IT DID NOT HAPPEN) and tuck yourself into bed.

I also strongly suspect that Tiger Tiger drugs you. Have you ever tried being to Tiger sober? Of course you haven’t; you got bored of being casually beaten up by strangers in the tunnel of death leading to the club room and got yourself a bucket. Boom- wasted. Tuesday comes and you ask yourself how it is possible to feel this dreadful; you make empty promises of never drinking again and state that alcohol is a poison. Correct- Tiger has poisoned you and left you feeling like you have given birth to yourself: Think about that.

Lastly, I am seriously beginning to resent club photographers. If I wanted a picture of me out, I would take my camera so I could then go home and heavily edit the pictures before publically publishing them. Instead, I apparently follow the man around pouting (clearly thinking I’m the sex) and looking like an absolute mong in the process.  The next day arrives and an ear wrenching screech rings throughout the house to announce that the photos are on Facebook: Suddenly the floors begin to shake as girls run from their rooms and we all congregate around a laptop and nervously flick through the album. We are then rewarded with some hideous snaps mostly leaning so much we are horizontal. Stop this madness.