Even at Vintage festival, where we went back to a time when blogs didn’t exist I managed a few words. It should highlight exactly how alcohol fuelled the past 3 days have been.
It’s Monday morning. I’m so hungover my Rice Krispies have an echo. That’s right, I’m a 27 year old man, eating Rice Krispies for breakfast. They looked easy to swallow, but they are so loud they’re making me feel nauseous.
There’s no way I’m going to make it back to the Carnival today. For the first year in many, this bank holiday Monday will be spent recuperating rather than just making it worse.
The weekend thus far, has been dominated by booze. Booze and girls. I’ll try and fit as much of it as I can remember in here, a lot of it has a blur around the outside though, and smells of amyl nitrate and Red Stripe.
Friday. Day 30… That’s three quarters of the way through, and feeling proud I decide that more Guinness than man should attempt to drink would be the best way of dealing with it. Friday was supposed to be the night we relaxed before the weekend ahead. Myself, and the future groom, a very quiet pint in the local, and then some pizza’s and computer games back at mine. It’s every man’s dream evening (when you’re not allowed to involve women.) It spiralled rapidly out of control though, and at one point the pub actually went to buy another barrel of Guinness. I don’t remember much more.
Saturday. Day 31. Jesus wept that morning hurt, a lot. I managed to peel myself out of bed to head into town – still drunk, I’d decided that I needed a new pair of trainers for the afternoon and as such Covent Garden was a good idea.
Definitely still drunk.
Covent Garden’s NEVER a good idea on a Saturday.
We then headed out East to watch the Arsenal Vs Blackburn game, before firing over to lunch for Emma’s birthday. Emma, (being a girl) has quite a few girl mates. I was really hungover. Put these two points together, mix in some more beer and pizza, it equals trouble. I get dumped on the table opposite the girl who’s Mystique’s (the blue one, from X-men, not that weird band) body double. Excellent. Then more turn up, conversation for some unknown reason moves swiftly to the fact that I’m 31 days into the 40, and goes rapidly downhill from there.
I made a swift exit. New shoes still on, and pants just about intact. I’d arranged to meet an old friend on Southbank. Also female. Just the two of them though, a walk in the park… no pun intended. Really lovely to see them. I managed to get through it with a couple of pints and without going to Camden to watch a ‘really good blue-grass band’ Huh?
It started to rain quite heavily, so I decided to head home, change out of the new shoes, and head back East to meet the boys – who by this point, were not in a good way. Unfortunately, down to Fridays antics, and now a few beers, there are more brains in a pork pie than between my ears. I had no house keys. I was wearing shorts and a t-shirt, and new white trainers. It was really raining by this point.
The short dash out to Shoreditch isn’t a problem though. Strolling into The Commercial Tavern, I got a round of applause before heading to the bar. Returning to the table, and more of Emma’s friends had turned up, it was at this point that I realised how severe my ban has got.
I was introduced in the following way……… “This is Chris. I wouldn’t bother. He’s celibate for another week. He’s doing that 40 days and 40 nights thing.”
You have got to be taking the fucking piss.
It’s not like when you’ve got no legs, and people nickname you Usain Bolt… you don’t need to explain the nickname. It’s really quite visible for everyone to see. When it comes to my little experiment I can explain it away whimsically if needs be. If I get the chance to, it gets described as ‘admirable’ – I’m still laughing at this, but I can obviously position it in such a way that it doesn’t make me look like a sexual terrorist. When Emma’s doing it… well, it does.
Not all bad though, it’s not like I want the attention with a week to go. Pffftt. Wrong. I really do.
Once The Commercial Tavern asked us politely to leave (after numerous tequila’s, Jager-bombs, 9% ciders, and Guinness) most of the party piled into a taxi to Centre Point hoping to carry on the party.
My legs weren’t working in unison, in fact they were doing the complete opposite. I decided, partly because of this, partly with Notting Hill in my mind, and partly because it was approaching the morning and I was still in shorts, t-shirt, and trainers, that I was going to head home and get an early night.
Sunday Morning. Day 32. Imagine the scene. It’s day 32. I’m waking at around 8am, on day 32. I can’t believe it. That’s longer than any calendar month. People have asked me during the past 32 days ‘what’s the longest you’ve gone before’ my answer (only including sex) has more than likely been ‘probably a month’ so therefore, this is the longest I’ve ever been, since being sexually active, without sex. Excellent work. I’m proud.
So 8am and the sun is shining, which has already put a smile on my face as we’ll be off to ‘Good Times’ in about 4 hours. I’m lying in bed, catching up on Match of the Day, with this morning’s paper, and a nice cup of tea.
It’s when this happens…. Emma, and ‘Mystique’ (without the blue body paint) decide to get into my bed ‘for some company’…. I don’t need this. I’ve still not got any physical or mental control over certain parts of my body.
I’m in my own bed, I’ve no clothes on. I’m trying desperately to focus on Martin Keown talking about Andy Carroll’s hair. The girl to the left of me, is a body double for a smoking hot blue mutant. I’ve got to get out of here,
The ultimate test. I’ve done 32 days. I’m not giving up now, when the days left are single figures. I just don’t want to think about figures. I don’t want to think of anything at all. Andy Carroll’s hair. Andy Carroll’s hair. Andy Carroll’s hair. Andy Carroll’s hair.
A few hours later, and I find myself, (re-grown virginity intact) stood in front of the Good Times sound system sinking Red Stripe at a rate of knots, and not thinking about the scantily clad blue mutant that’s still in my bed. The suns out, and despite a small downpour early doors, women aren’t wearing much. The aforementioned small downpour has actually added to the lack of clothes rendering the majority of them see-through. Time for a house party, some more Red Stripe, a curry, some more Red Stripe, and a lie-in on Monday morning.
What a weekend. It’s now Tuesday morning. It’s day 33. THIRTY THREE days. I don’t think I’ve ever given anything up for this long, least not one of the things I love most. One week from today, and it’ll be the first day of the rest of my life.
I can’t wait.
