My hair gets really fuzzy. In rain, or sun – it fuzzes. THIS is what I was thinking about last Saturday night, well Sunday morning, as I lay in the field near Trevor’s house and looked up at the stars. It was only afterwards that Oscar Wilde came to me and said ”we are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.” Well I was in the gutter, looking at the stars, and could think of nothing deeper than oh damn, the grass is very wet and I BET my hair gets fuzzy.
Which it did – horrificially so. I really must learn to control my ugliness. It is having a shockingly adverse affect on the hunt for a boy plaything.
Dirty pints on Saturday with Trevor, as aforementioned. We started out classily drinking prosecco in the garden, in the sun, and discussing our ageing process and who currently has the most wrinkles (I have shocking crow’s feet but Trevor is CONVINCED her frown lines more than make up for any lines I may have – they don’t). She also was good enough to tell me that I am ”pretty, but need to wear makeup.” Nice. ”I’ll always tell you the truth,” she mused, while I wailed in the corner after witnessing my rosywithwine cheeks, sans makeup, and felt distraught.
Dear fuck, I’ve just realised that as I type this I’ve had some form of the antiques roadshow playing in the background. I’ve just kicked the telly through the window and stuck ”Your Song” on instead. Cheers Elton!
So after applying enough makeup to sink my crow’s feet and Trevor’s frown lines we declared ourselves sufficiently tanked enough to take to the streets of Trevor’s suburb and hit the local Italian, who had messed up our reservation and stuck us at a tiny bar waiting area with a child barman whom we insulted into serving us before everybody else, with dirty pints.
Dirty pints don’t go well with Italian but we ploughed on nonetheless, feeling quite drunk after our one course (we missed the early bird and refused to pay full price on anything else – there is a recession going on you silly restaurant owners, didn’t you know?).
Afterwards we bumped into some of Trevor’s neighbours in the toilets and I did a ladywhizz while she tried not to slur her pleasantries. Once they’d left I signed my name on the toilet checking roster as Terence Trent D’Arby (80’s musos rise!!!) and then we sang many songs. I’ve now just remembered there was a disgraceful drag queen singer in the restaurant, singing along with a karaoke machine – the food prices may not have been recession proof but the ”entertainment” had surely been haggled in on a knockdown price. For any songs we didn’t know the words to, or refused to admit we knew the words of, we sang the Irish footballing anthem ”Ole Ole Ole” or, to give it it’s official title ”Put Em Under Pressure” as released by the Irish football team once they qualified, for the first time ever, to play in the World Cup in 1990. Now that Ireland has qualified to play in the Euro football finals for the first time in 10 years, the song is enjoying a resurgence and is being sung by our Green Army once again, in great hope and trepidation that we may actually succeed, for once.