It's such a waste to get wasted in the first place?

More often than I'd like to admit, I'll walk past a pub and smell that beautiful and distinctive pub smell, and a little voice in my head will whisper, "We could go in you know. You'd like a drink. There's nothing you've really got to do today. You won't be missed. Go in and we'll drink until we taste delicious oblivion." Occasionally I'll even pause in the doorway, mentally count my change, but then I walk on. I've got quite good at slapping that voice upside the head these days. Just as well really, given I walk past a pub on my way to college every morning. Gone are the days of endless empty bottles of Asda value whisky strewn around my room, of panicking at closing time, of not knowing what it's like to wake up without a hangover. And I'm fine with that. I'm more productive when I'm not drinking every day. I act like a complete knob when I'm wasted. But some days I still wake up with a strong desire to get really fucked up. Today is one of those days. So, in an attempt to dissuade myself from getting drunk (I've got a dentist appointment tomorrow to prod at my recalcitrant wisdom tooth which is going to be unpleasant enough without having to constantly supress the urge to vomit) I'm going to run down my top three worst drinking injuries.

In at number three is my most recent drinking disaster. I'd been out with my cinema colleagues to a fairly horrific student night in terms of clientele and music but it was pretty fantastic in terms of drink deals, so a plan of action formed quickly in my head. The plan of action involved a lot of the £1 shots. Stumbling back home, the tiniest slope caused me to lose my footing and skid along the pavement on my forearm. When I got home I was more concerned with the fact that I'd managed to rip a pair of stockings, however, when I woke up I was in some discomfort due to the fact that I appeared to have managed to remove most of the skin from my right forearm, leaving a weeping, painful mess. When I turned up for my shift my boss took one look at it and went pale. "That's- that's- oh my god. Can we get that covered up? Get a first aider! We can't have that near the food." I was duly bandaged and packed off to consessions. Salt with your popcorn?

I spent a lot of my time at Cambridge in various states of extreme inebriation. On this particular occasion I'd been out at a club and invited various friends back at closing time to continue drinking. Someone rang me to let me know they were at the college gates and I hurried to let them in, pulling on the nearest pair of shoes, heels of course. As I ran across the court to the gate, I lost my footing and fell over, landing with my weight almost entirely on the fingers of my right hand. They were already starting to swell when I got back to my room. Luckily, I took my rings off as by the morning they were so swollen and painful that they were barely recognisable as fingers, never mind flexible. I put off going to the doctor as I didn't want to waste valuable time with my drunken idiocy but when I still couldn't move them two days later a friend bundled me onto a bus to A&E. In the Xray room the woman was very kind and gentle when I said I couldn't straighten my fingers. Until she found out how I'd hurt them, when she pushed my hand flat against the table, splaying my soon-to-be-discovered-broken fingers painfully. I may have let out a manly exclamation of surprise but I suppose I deserved it. I went back out drinking that evening and managed to singe my bandage when trying to light my cigarette. There's no helping some people.


And finally, my piece de resistance. It was my first year and I'd had a rather jolly night at the Cambridge goth night and was leaving, staggering slightly, in my six inch heels. It was just as I arrived at the chip van, in front of a large queue of people, that I lost my footing and plummeted onto the cobbles. Only I was so utterly trashed that I forgot to put my hands out to save myself and landed directly on my face. My shocked boyfriend pulled me to my feet, asking if I was okay. "Absolutely fine!" I slurred with the numbness of the truly bollocksed, "I just want to get my chips." When I reached the front of the queue I was greeted by a look of horror from the chip man, "What happened?! You're bleeding!" he cried, stuffing napkins into my hand. "I'm fine," I protested as boyfriend-of-the-time dabbed at the blood running down my face, "I'd just like some chips please." Poor, long-suffering Boyfriend shepherded me home where I finally had a chance to survey the damage. I had a large graze running the length of my cheek and another on my chin. I stared for a couple of seconds before breaking down into noisy sobs of, "I'm scarred for life! My face is ruined!" Boyfriend managed to get me to shut up and go to bed, just as well as I had to get up bright and early to give a presentation on Luke's Gospel. I tried to hide my disfigurement behind my hair but no one said anything to me. "Couldn't you have put some concealer on?" asked Boyfriend, "They were probably too scared to say anything to you because they thought I was beating you up!"

So there we have it. Drinking is bad for my health. And I don't want a drink at all now.
Absolutely not.

Wardrobe Malfunctions

I believe that anyone can look attractive if they dress well and clothing is something I've learnt to use to my advantage. Corsetry, stilettos and seamed stockings, fascinators, red lipstick and jewellery help me pretend that I'm not just plump and plain, help me create an illusion, a glamour. I love glamour. Every time someone tells me that I make them feel underdressed, every time a stranger comments on my outfit, it makes my whole day. But while what you wear can turn you from a little bown bird into a peacock, it can also just make you look a bit of a cock. I'm talking about Judy Finnegan's hammock-like bra making a bid for freedom at an awards ceremony, or Janet Jackson's bizarrely spiky nipple fighting its way out on stage. The wardrobe malfunction is one of the cruellest forms of humiliation and as I'm in a confessional mood, here are my top five most embarrassing instances.

Number Five: Picture the scene, I'm at the Leipzig goth festival, I'm with my boyfriend of the time and his band are playing the festival so I have a special access all areas wristband, I'm at the main venue and it's heaving with goths but with my magic wristband I can jump queues, I'm eyeing up other people's outfits and feeling pretty pleased with myself, I'm standing swigging mead with people from bands and feeling pretty damned cool. But what's this? Are these German goths staring in wonder at my amazing dress sense or has the zip on my skirt broken exposing my bum crack to anyone who cares to look? Yeah.

I've written before about the Hancock incident at the cinema that, along with the surfeit of bodily fluids, pushed me to resignation. What I didn't mention was wardrobe malfunction Number Four. So, I arrived at work having had to clean up shit the previous day to be presented with a costume to wear. That was quite bad. The costume consisted of a woolly hat and sunglasses in the middle of summer to be worn whilst standing in front of a hot dog grill. That was fairly awful. I hadn't put my contacts in so I was forced to wear the sunglasses perched above my normal glasses, looking like a mental who couldn't dress themselves properly. That was pretty appauling. Just before going down to my till I bent down to get my name badge and the seam on the inner thigh of my trousers split right up to the gusset meaning I had to spend the entire shift shuffling around concessions like a demented penguin with my legs together so as not to flash anyone. That was the icing on the cake of humiliation.

I try my very hardest to present an elegant exterior even if, as many people have told me, it only lasts until I open my mouth. Unfortunately events often conspire to rid me of any such illusions before I've even managed to do that, such as in incident Number Three. I realise that the tinned foods isle in Asda isn't the classiest of locations but you never know who you'll bump into at the supermarket and I was wearing a new pair of holdups. Has ever such a misnomer been applied to an item of hosiery? I was walking down frozen foods when I felt the right "holdup" come loose. I prayed it would stay put but by the time I'd reached baked goods the rubber top was flapping around my ankle like a bell around a clapper. Class, poise and elegance is not having to dive into the George changing room to peel off an errant stocking, then being forced to walk home in the rain one stocking on, one stocking off.

Class, poise and elegance were exactly what I wanted to present to the gentleman I went on a date with, who was instead confronted with clothing disaster Number Two. I met him for a drink and quite wanted to impress him. Unfortunate then that within the hour I'd gone arse over tit with a full pint in each hand. However, like the trooper I am, I picked myself up, resigned myself to smelling like a brewery and continued in my attempt to charm him. As I got up to go out for a cigarette I noticed him eyeing me up. I raised an eyebrow quizzically, "Just enjoying the view," he smirked. I felt pleased that he fancied me depite my enormous clumsiness and general ineptitude. It was only when I got home, via several modes of public transport, that I realised that when I fell over I'd split my pencil skirt right up the vent, exposing stocking tops, suspenders and far too much thigh to half of London.

Here we are at my Number One most embarrassing wardrobe malfunction. It has crossed my mind that most people probably haven't even had five, never mind enough to make a chart from but that's part of the exciting life I lead, I suppose. Anyway, when I was in my second year at Cambridge I was a member of a society whose entire purpose was to dress up as goths and get drunk. As you can imagine that was quite a stretch for me. On this occasion we were attending the formal dinner at Kings College. I was wearing a new corset and was somewhat over-excited and showing off, therefore managed to drink all of my wine but somehow not to eat anything. We'd hired out the Kings Cellar after the meal for playing of cheesy music and dancing. Among said cheesy music was the Timewarp from Rocky Horror. I think it might have been played twice. Both times I was there enthusiastically stepping to the right etc. to much encouragement. So much encouragement that I did it again in the bar once the cellar was shut. And possibly again another time after that. I may even have got home and done a bit of timewarping in the mirror. Where I discovered that when my arms were raised above my head they pulled my breasts out of the corset, making my nipples visible to everyone. Suddenly most of the applause made sense.

So, come on, what's your most embarrassing wardrobe malfunction?

SHAME!

I discovered Bête de Jour's blog a few months ago and it's become a firm favourite. It's well written, funny, and at all times painfully honest. Today he asked his readers, "What's the most embarrassing thing you've ever done?" and as I have an internet crush on him am so good at humiliating myself, I thought I'd (over) share.

As with many of the incidents that sneak up on me when I'm trying to go to sleep, filling me with so much horror as I remember them that I have to stuff my duvet into my mouth to stop myself from screaming, I was very drunk when this occurred. I'd just started sleeping with a bloke in my friendship group that I'd fancied for ages, we'll call him Travis, and was in the pub with him and some others. I'd been drinking all afternoon on an empty stomach and was already about six pints of snakebite and black down before my mate, who we'll call Dan, got the evil glint in his eye that means he's about to suggest some sort of heinous drinking game. Dan's drinking games are always completely incomprehensible, involving all sorts of 'international drinking rules' to catch you out. I know hardened alcoholics who pale at the thought of Dan's drinking games, yet out of some sort of pathetic need to prove myself in front of Travis I decided to join in. Cue me having to down two pints in quick succession and half the pub watching as myself and a friend attempted to recite a ridiculous rhyme with added actions. Pretty embarrassing already, to be honest.

Alcohol can lift you up and make you feel like the king of the world but it can also be an insidious bastard. And so it was only when I stood up and got out into the fresh air after kicking out time that I realised exactly how fucked I was. But by then it was too late and I'd already agreed to go home with Travis. As I began to walk back to Travis's it became increasingly apparent that I was going to have to be sick very soon. In an attempt to retain what was left of my dignity, I asked him to walk ahead of me and told him I'd catch up with him in a minute. As soon as he was suitably far away I began to vomit purple froth into the gutter. Unfortunately I was so utterly bollocksed that the mere act of bending over was enough to cause me to suffer a lack of composure and topple into the gutter, landing in a pool of my own second hand snakebite. I was hauled out by a concerned pair of passing students, while Travis ran back down the road wondering what the hell was going on. Explaining that was pretty fucking humiliating but it does not end there, for I am an adept in the art of self-abasement, an expert in embarrassment.

I continued back to Travis's house, feeling better for the fresh air. I obviously felt so much better on arriving that I thought it would be a good idea to engage in a sex act. Only there are certain sex acts that really shouldn't be attempted when the gag reflex is still quivering and sensitive from a recent regurgitation. Nothing like coating your partner's crotch in emesis to kill the passionate mood. Cue Travis frantically trying to clean himself up and change the bedclothes around me as I sat on the end of the bed sobbing. To Travis's credit, he took it in his stride and we dated for two years. Until he dumped me because he'd decided he was gay. On positive days, I like to think the two incidents aren't connected.