Elle Savage: Everyone knows Pinot Grigio is just Italian for slut fuel

As David Sedaris once wrote, ‘the only things we have left in this world are the sins we haven’t committed yet’.  By this logic, we have nothing. Perhaps this is what drove the house into the ominous and yet strangely familiar arms of last week’s Sin City. As we all had deadlines due last week, reason would suggest we stay in and work. However, vodka had just gone on price drop at Tesco, so the game was on. As we stumbled into Sin City, we did the only thing we knew how. We beelined it for the bar. Having already drunk several litres of what can only be deemed as ‘devil juice’, we rolled in with the classic ‘we’re here to fuck shit up’ mentality, never imagining the madness that would ensue. Since I too was present, ever so slightly inebriated, and ready to dance like one of those blow up characters they have in front of carwashes, the following events are what we have pieced together from pictures, accounts of fellow travelers, and our Twitter feeds.

Each of us awakes to a different labyrinth of questions regarding the previous several hours. Some find themselves fully clothed in bed, while others, perhaps more adventurous souls, start their morning in the Badlands, finding a metal ‘Fire Exit’ sign taped to themselves. One thing is for certain, we all have Union wristbands and that empty feeling you get in the pit of your stomach where your dignity used to be. Then, as all those experienced in the art of blacking out can tell you, the next step is inventory. Phone: check. Cards: check. Shoes: one out of two… not bad. Self-esteem: couldn’t be lower.

Next step: check Facebook, Twitter, email, and bank statements (in that order). Facebook tells us we made it to the Union. Lovely. Twitter tells us that we were each individually escorted out of the Union for what we can only assume to be showing up the Union ‘sexy dancers’ with our sick dance moves…or for passing out somewhere deep in the bowels of Venue 1. Saintmail proves to be the biggest clue seeing as three of the housemates awoke to an email from RyanAir confirming their six-day trip to Brussels that they booked the previous night. Why Brussels? Swedish House Mafia is also playing in Brussels at the same time – a ‘once in a lifetime experience’ to which they also bought tickets. Why Swedish House Mafia? They can neither tell you that, nor name a single song preformed by the super group. Nevertheless, they found a £5 Megabus to Amsterdam, so they are still considering the night a success.

The next assumption is based on the appearance of various bruises. After a series of house intruders throughout the last week, our flat made a decision to start locking our door at night. However, we all thought it was a bluff, and we all decided to call it. Sin City was the perfect storm, all of us having being kindly asked separately by Union staff to go home and fight the good fight another day, causing the group to break up and thusly, mass confusion. We all individually made our way home, keyless, tactless, and thoroughly incapable of remembering we have a doorbell.

In our albeit compromised minds, the only thing standing between us and a sauced up slumber was a locked door, so we did the only conceivable thing. We all broke in. Looking back, the amount of flaws in our security is highly disconcerting. Three of us simultaneously climbed through various windows, jumped the stone wall surrounding our garden, and attempted to pick locks. I struggled to open our kitchen window until a police van rolled by, causing me to ‘act natural,’ which I now know was me jumping behind a bush. With the cop car out of sight, I managed to pry open the window to our kitchen, take several steps back and with a running start, attempted to superman through the window. This was perhaps an overestimation of my athletic abilities. As I hit the counter that in my defense, appeared out of nowhere, my inner Tobias Funke kicked in and I stealthily rolled off the counter to the floor, somehow landing on my feet and quietly whispering ‘catwoman’ in success.

It may take a while for us to be able to sneak back into the Union, but rest assured, this flat will get inappropriately white-girl-wasted on wine, because everyone knows that Pinot Grigio is just Italian for slut fuel anyway.