Posted in Writing

I Quit Drinking for a Month and Here’s What Happened

After a particularly heavy weekend in Rome that saw me relegated to the toilet for longer than is polite, it occurred to me that I have been drinking pretty much every weekend since the age of 14. That’s almost a quarter of a century of jagermeister, beer, red wine, consequent hangovers, junk food, and existential crises.

It’s kind of gross. My last baby tooth was yanked out by my drunk-ass self in a Paceville toilet, and since then my liver has been under permanent attack. Once, at the ripe old age of 15, and all in one night, I drank 2 bottles of red wine to myself, proceeded to throw up in a bar in front of all the ‘cute seniors’, got dropped by my equally drunk best friend down a spiral staircase, threw up again all over the backseat of some random guy’s brand new car as he was driving me and my friends home, got forced into a cold shower by my friends who put me to bed where I stayed until I (surprisingly) surfaced the next day with zero memory of everything except the embarrassing parts of the night before.

I have had high expectations of my body’s ability to heal itself for quite some time now and I feel like I’ve had my fun. I’m so unbelievably bored of it, and I’m at that age where what I do now will have a much more significant impact on my lifespan than what I did when I was in my twenties. So, for this reason, I decided to stop drinking for 4 weeks, primarily just to find out if I could. For all I know, I could be a raging alcoholic, I’ve just never stopped drinking long enough to find out. But this experiment was also a way to find out if there is anything else to do for fun that doesn’t involve drinking (or joining a gym, fuck off with that). After I was finished, the plan was then to return to drinking, but at a much more modest pace. You know, like what French people do.

So, after 28 days of not drinking, here is what I discovered:

1. People Are Shit

Oh my god. People are so fucking shit, how did I not notice this? Oh yeah, that’s right, because I was smashed the whole time. Going into a social environment as the only non-drinker, I could not believe how self-obsessed everyone was. Drunk people LOVE to talk about themselves. And in the most nauseating way, too. Here are just some of things that were said to me without even a hint of irony:

  • “I’ve travelled here, and here, and here, and there, and as a result I am an authority on every single culture that exists on planet Earth at the present moment.”
  • “I teach yoga. I’m pretty amazing. Look at my bendy body, look at it bending more than is necessary. Wow, right?”
  • “I have quite a lot of money, not to sound like an asshole.”
  • “My husband has quite a lot of money. It means I have the luxury of being flexible with my career choices. I’m currently on my 9th career move because I have experienced no repercussions as a result of lack of commitment due to all the money that my husband gives me. He’s really cool like that. He respects my need to be free.”
  • “I train for 2 hours every day after work. Feel how heavy my bag is. It’s because I have to change outfits 3 times a day because of all the activities I do. I also have to carry my lunch in there because I’m vegan, so you know, I have to plan my meals.”
  • “I’m quite important, as much as I despise myself for saying it.”

No need to despise yourself, everyone else is already doing that for you.

2. I’m Not Sure Pizza Is As Amazing As I Thought

Think about it guys. It’s basically just bread and cheese with some fancy ketchup. I think the only reason I like it is because I can eat it with my hands when I’m an immobile, onesie-wearing, hungover mess on my sofa, and I don’t have to feel bad about it because you’re supposed to eat pizza with your hands. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but there are actually better things than pizza to eat if you are willing to commit to cutlery.

3. I Actually Like Sundays

When I drank every weekend, Sundays were like a horrible no man’s land for me. You can’t go out on the smash because you have work in the morning, you also can’t do anything productive like exercise or cleaning because you’re hungover from Saturday night, so you kind of just sit there in your pjs feeling this horrendous guilt mixed with dread that the working week is about to start all over again and you’ve achieved literally nothing.

When you don’t drink, however, your entire weekend is one giant Sunday. And where before it was my write-off waste of a day, now it’s like I’ve discovered a whole new day. An entire day has been added to my week. It’s amazing!

4. I’m Thinner

The fact that my drink of choice is pints of 200 calorie beer advertised by Peter Kay, of course I’m going to lose weight. I consumed up to 1500 less calories over the course of a weekend.

5. I Can Be Productive When I Want To Be

I wrote this article, for example. Since I fulfilled my life-long dream of writing for a living, you’ll be fucked if you think I’m touching a keyboard after 6pm on any day of the week or at all on the weekends. I like my free time to be as devoid of words as humanly possible. Or so I thought. Turns out that it’s not that I don’t want to write. It’s that I can’t be arsed writing because, you guessed it, I’m hungover and my brain can’t create anything other than the minimum words needed to order a pizza.

Although I don’t want to replace drinking with fitness activities (because I just don’t like people who do that), I do want to be more active in general. So, now that I’ve stopped drinking temporarily, I have joined a trapeze yoga class which is kind of awesome because you get to hang upside down and swing about under the guise of exercise, plus the other day I did some kind of martial arts drill on the roof of a seafront house in Xemxija. I mean, Jesus! My instagram has never been so horrifically smug.
#innerwarrior #namaste #livelaughlove #beautyinnature #downwarddogkindaday

[Side note: Can someone tell me how to properly hashtag? I’m not sure if you put a full stop after the end of your caption and then start your hashtags on a new line, or if you don’t use a full stop (the horror) and just go straight into the hashtags? I’m becoming my mum it’s fine.]

6. More Sex

Not surprisingly, you feel less disgusting when you’re not drinking, plus you are thinner. What does this mean? Naked! Naked all the time!

7. People Say Mean Things When They Are Drunk

Someone said to me:
“You look younger than what you are, apart from those wrinkles on your forehead. They kind of give the game away.”
Uh, thanks bitch.

And also this one:
“I mean, I don’t know your financial situation, but I’m assuming you can’t afford to buy property in Ta Giorni.”
Assuming from what exactly?? My wrinkly forehead? I’m an oil industry veteran you fucking asshole. A VETERAN. OLD MONEY. VINTAGE CURRENCY. BLACK GOLD. You don’t know me. You don’t know anything.

Turns out I can’t really afford to buy property in Ta Giorni, but whatever. At least I’m not on my 9th career move and entirely financially dependent on someone who is quite obviously fucking the company events manager, and has been for some time. SOME TIME.

8. I’m No Less Cynical

It may surprise you to hear that cutting out the drink has not made me any less suspicious of happy people. Most people still annoy me, I still hate inspirational quotes, and selfies, and narcissism, and stupidity, and charcuterie boards. If anything, it’s probably made me worse because I can’t soften my tolerance with John Smiths.

So my conclusion after a month off the booze is that I’m definitely not an alcoholic, which is nice (I got drunk to celebrate), but I’m afraid that enduring any social activity without drinking is not possible for me at this stage. It’s not the physiological need to drink, it’s that everyone else is a problem when you’re sober in a bar. If I stopped drinking completely, I would have to stop going out completely and that in itself is not healthy for a fluttering social butterfly like myself.

Saying that, I have discovered a whole new way to spend my free time, and I really like it. I like trapeze yoga, I like writing, I like organising my life, and cooking, and phoning my mum, and being good to myself. So I’ve made a deal with my inner 15 year old to only go out when I actually want to, which is only about 50% of the time that I actually do. All that’s left now is to learn how to say no…

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Posted in Writing

What I think about when my body is crying the tears of a disappointed uterus

period-12
1. How on God’s green Earth did it take me almost two decades to notice that Jeremy Beadle had one tiny hand? Growing up, I saw more of him than my own father – and Beadle died in 2008 so why do I give a shit?

2. I wonder how many puppies are being mistreated right this very second.

3. Pretty sure I wasn’t this fat 5 minutes ago.

4. Watership Down.

5. At least I’m not pregnant. Although, people can still get their period when they’re pregnant. I could be pregnant. I should be pregnant, I’m fucking 35. Do I think this is a game?

6. Hmm, I seem to be suddenly incapable of doing my job. Let me stare at this pen for 20 minutes and get sad about over-laden donkeys in remote Morocco.

7. Oh my God, that text I sent two years ago to the guy I was casually seeing with the inappropriate joke that went down like a shit sandwich. How embarrassing. *Followed by me making an incoherent noise and touching my face like I’m trying to take my skin off*

8. Fried chicken.

9. Oh wait, I can’t be pregnant. I haven’t had sex in months.

10. I haven’t had sex in months 😥

11. None of this matters. I’m going to die of toxic shock syndrome next week.

12. I don’t think I ever want kids, everyone makes them sound about as fun as hemorrhoids.

13. I miss Super Mario Brothers 3. Let me cry about how much I miss Super Mario Brothers 3 because playing it on emulator is just not the same, and then I realise that I miss a game that never truly existed, which pushes me over the edge into the great abyss of depression where I contemplate if anything good from my childhood was ever real. What is life? What is love? What is Mario?

14. Whatever happened to Beppe off Eastenders?

15. Is anyone really happily married?

16. I should stop drinking. For a few hours.

17. I really need to write down all the awesome plans I have for my funeral and send them to my mum so she knows what to do when I die of toxic shock syndrome next week. The thought of someone else choosing my funeral song is making me nauseous.

18. I bet BBQ’d dinosaur meat would taste fucking delightful.

19. That was probably my last decent egg. Hello barren wasteland.

20. That story my mum told me in 1986 about a blind orphan that nobody wanted.

21. One month until my boyfriend moves here, which equates to one month until I begin my journey of transformation. I will become a new woman. I will stop drinking so much beer and I will join a gym, I will nurture a routine and I will moisturise every day. Our sex life will never fade. Ever. Twice a day for the rest of our lives is a completely realistic and sustainable goal.

22. There are no Wine Gums in this vending machine. What kind of “office” is this, and how do I join the Union?

23. Actually, I do want to have kids. I shall have a child who skateboards and will one day save the world and/or be good at drawing.

24. Who knew pancakes made such great spoons?

25. My boobs hurt. Definitely cancer. I think I’d wear a blue head-scarf if I had cancer, I’d wear a wig if I was going to something fancy though, like a wedding.

26. I want to get drunk with Adele and Jeremy Corbyn.

27. Everyone hates me.

28. I need to poop, but I am not in a safe enough space to commit to the unpredictable farce that is a period poop. Utter carnage that requires complete privacy. You got yourself in a real bind here young lady.

29. I wonder what it feels like to walk home alone at night and not worry about getting raped by every single person who walks past.

30. Didn’t get raped, which means it remains biologically impossible for me to be pregnant. Also means I still haven’t had sex in months.

31. The woman on the Secret Escapes advert is a cunt.

32. Time for a nap.

33. Why do I feel so unbearably awkward eating bananas at work? I’m not in high school anymore.

34. I’m not in high school anymore 😥

35. I am absolutely terrified of having kids. Some days I want them, some days I don’t. The truth is, I want them, but the fear of doing a bad job is utterly paralysing.

36. My uterus feels like it’s tumble-drying an arsenal of medieval weapons.

37. I should volunteer for a charitable cause, like having lunch with lonely pensioners.

38. Put the dungarees down. You cannot pull off dungarees anymore. No matter how much you might think you look like a white Lisa Lefteye Lopez, you are from Bridge of Don. You are not, and never will be, ghetto chic.

39. I am removing myself from all social media immediately. I am surrounded by retards.

40. Looks like I’ve successfully made it through another blood bath. Oh, the return of rationality is such comfort…although it’s still entirely possible I may be pregnant.

magician cat

Posted in Picture, Writing

Walking in a Onesie Wonderland

It’s the 15th of January and my hangover shakes have only just subsided enough for me to type. I am usually pretty happy at this time of year because Christmas is over and I can get back to being an unsociable Skyrim-raping bastard, however this year I am actually on a bit of a downer. The reason for this uncharacteristic post-festive depression is because I actually had a lot of fun this year. It’s true! I have discovered that it is entirely possible to have a relaxing and enjoyable Christmas – and all you have to do is follow this one simple step:
 
-Wake up on Christmas morning and say to yourself: “Today I am going to do whatever the fuck I want”.
 
It really works, I tried it this year and this is what happened:

I woke up on Christmas morning in my mum’s house in Cyprus. I handed Billy, Lisa, Dan and my mum a onesie each, which I had previously purchased from Primark (for those of you who don’t know what a onesie is – it is basically a baby-grow for adults, complete with attached feet). Lisa was a penguin, my mum was a zebra, I was a cow, Dan was a gangster-baby and Billy was a kind of paedophile-snowflake.

Once onesied-up, we headed downstairs and sat by the Christmas tree in front of the log fire (turns out it can be a bit chilly in Cyprus in December) where we proceeded to open all of our presents. As you can see from the photos, our gifts and cards reflected the deep and profound emotions we feel towards each other:

When all the presents were opened we headed into the kitchen where we cooked dinner together (still in our onesies). Our dinner was accompanied with Grey Goose vodka and freshly-squeezed orange juice which had come from the oranges we stole from a farm the day before (we literally parked the car at the side of the road and ran into a random orange-grove armed with an empty shopping bag each. Most of us at least tried to steal oranges that had fallen on the ground as they would have gone to waste anyway. Not Lisa. She managed to find a basket of oranges that someone had actually worked hard to harvest and emptied it into her bag. I think the orange-picker guy had only gone for a cigarette).

Anyway, back to dinner. We put our Christmas hats on and ate FAR too much, laughed a lot, farted even more and put away enough Buck’s Fizz to ensure that none of our organs are considered donatable. After we couldn’t take anymore, the inevitable sleepiness started to creep in. Usually this is the point where I am so bloated that the dress I reluctantly squeezed myself into earlier that day now makes me look like a plastic-bag overly stuffed with awkward-shaped meat. I then have to talk to people that I haven’t seen since the previous Christmas without spewing into their eyes every time I take a sip of the circa-1965 booze that someone kindly donated from the back of their dead grandma’s cupboard.

Not this year. This year I was doing whatever the fuck I wanted – and I wanted to curl up in a ball and let literally everything hang out until this wave of over-indulgence had subsided. As if reading my mind, my mum then told us to go and look behind the sofa. We did as she asked and there, pressed up against the wall, were two airbeds. Two fucking airbeds! There were angel noises playing in my head. We immediately pumped them up, brought our duvets down from upstairs and arranged ourselves around the TV in a kind of disgusting human-amphitheatre, sheltering from the meat-sweats in our beautiful new Christmassy refugee camp. We passed the rest of the evening watching Team America and the odd episode of Eastbound & Down. It really was a ridiculously spectacular day.

Now, some people may think that this is inappropriate (and slightly repulsive) behaviour for Christmas, but 100% of the people I have talked to about my day have said the exact same thing:

“That sounds amazing, I wish my Christmas was like that.”

What I don’t understand is, if everyone wishes their Christmas was like that, then why isn’t it? Clearly we would all rather eat shit-loads of carbs and spend an entire day on an airbed in our pyjamas than do the formal family gathering so favoured by the average human, so why do we put ourselves through it? When I have kids and everyone starts coming round to mine, immediately upon stepping through the door they will be handed a onesie, an airbed pump and a glass of Buck’s Fizz – and this will set the tone for the rest of the day.

Since making the decision to do whatever the fuck I want on Christmas day, not only does it suddenly seem tolerable, I am actually actively looking forward to it. In fact, if all goes to plan, this Christmas might even overtake the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee as my favourite holiday of the year.  If this sounds like your kind of day too, then I suggest you sit your family down and tell them that this Christmas you are doing whatever the fuck you want, and you will be doing it all day long.  If they don’t like it, then I’ll see you round ours!

 Bring cake.

Posted in Picture, Writing

Lisa’s Pieces – Gingwa & Friends

Lisa phoned a bar/restaurant to book a table for dinner.  When she got there, this is what she found on her table:

Lisa Gingwa? I thought I was supposed to be the Chinese one.

Does Gingwa sound anything like Dingwall?  I really dont think it does. It sounds more like the name of a spray to keep gingers away:

“Too many gingers in your vicinity?  Try ‘Gingwa’ – the new environmentally friendly ginger repellant from Johnson & Johnson.”

I’ve been called Mr. Bingwall by Sky Customer Services before but I have never had anyone mishear it this badly. 

Also, I’m not sure how happy I am about the management inviting complete strangers to use their arses to keep my seat warm.  I would prefer a cold, stranger-arse free seat I think.

Posted in Picture, Writing

Lisa’s Pieces – Evil Swans

I hate swans.  Really, really hate swans.  I got attacked by a swan on a golf course in Florida in 1993. Had to kick it in the face.  

Another incident occured at a beach party one night in the Bridge of Don a couple of years ago.  A swan decided to start flying around in the pitch dark right next to me but I couldn’t see anything so when I heard the sound of its freakishly large wings hitting the water I thought we were being attacked by terrorists with sawn-off shotguns. I tried to throw bits of bonfire at it but it didn’t care, they aren’t scared of anything.

It is with some disgust, therefore, that I am posting the latest of Lisa’s pictures sent to me on purpose from a park of some description:

Disgusting

I can see Lisa’s boyfriend Dan’s foot in the corner!  He’s far too close. They don’t want your bread Dan, they want your soul.  Kick them in the face!!

If you still think that you like swans, here are some swany facts that may make you change your mind:

photo courtesy of richardhellergallery.com

-They can fly as fast as 50 to 60 miles per hour.
-Some have a wing span of 10 feet.
-Adult males have been known to use a blow from the “knucklebone” of their wing to defend their family.
-This blow is said to be strong enough to break a man’s arm.
-The adult male is the only known bird to have a penis.

So, not only are they fast, large and violent beasts capable of breaking bones with their feathery knucklebone-uppercuts, they are also potential rapists. I fucking knew it!

God, imagine getting raped by a swan…

There would be a lot of blinking.

Continue reading “Lisa’s Pieces – Evil Swans”

Posted in Writing

2010 – The Gaming Tramp in Review

I have just received the annual review (well from November anyway) of my blog from WordPress and according to their ‘helper monkeys’ I am “fresher than ever”. After a week of solid drinking, I can assure you that I have definitely been fresher.  They also state that I have uploaded 73 photos when it was more like 7 and are there not 52 weeks in a year as opposed to 73?  Monkeys, you are here to supply us with something to test our cosmetics on and I suggest you stick to that.  How can you expect to be good at statistics?  You can’t do maths with perfume in your eyeballs silly!

Anyway, one of the statistics below states that the equivalent of three full 747s have read my blog. Now that is all well and good until you realise that the last plane I was on was an Easyjet flight from Ibiza so half the passengers couldn’t read and the other half had a mutated form of genital herpes mixed with leprosy.

I think what the helper monkeys are really trying to say is:
“2010 was a great year for you and your blog – if you like highly contagious, occasionally terminal venereal diseases which have been incubated within Easyjet-flying, bareback-riding, hair-extension chewing, pill-popping, skanky crack whores on a foam-party themed hen weekend…………..with their newborn children.”

Thank God I love all those things!

On a side note, one of my top 5 referring sites is google.de. Is that not German Google? Why are Germans reading my blog? Germans! Why are you reading my blog? Were you on that Easyjet flight? I don’t know what you want from me but if it’s what I’m thinking then forget it. We all know what happened the last time you tried that.

—————————————————————————–

“The stats helper monkeys at WordPress.com mulled over how this blog did in 2010, and here’s a summary of its overall blog health:

Healthy blog!

The Blog-Health-o-Meter™ reads Fresher than ever.

Crunchy numbers

Featured image

A Boeing 747-400 passenger jet can hold 416 passengers. This blog was viewed about 1,400 times in 2010. That’s about 3 full 747s.

In 2010, there were 29 new posts, not bad for the first year! There were 73 pictures uploaded, taking up a total of 22mb. That’s about a picture per week.

The busiest day of the year was November 21st with 103 views. The most popular post that day was Why I Heart the Dart.

Where did they come from?

The top referring sites in 2010 were facebook.com, WordPress Dashboard, mail.live.com, twitter.com, and google.de.

Some visitors came searching, mostly for the gaming tramp, gaming tramp, christmas cameltoe, decision points itunes, and christmas camel toe.

Attractions in 2010

These are the posts and pages that got the most views in 2010.

1

Why I Heart the Dart November 2010
1 comment

2

Scotland – Stop Growing on Me Like a Fungus December 2010
2 comments

3

Heat Magazine – Shut the Hell Up December 2010

4

About me November 2010
2 comments

5

Lisa’s Pieces – Mr Bison & the Bareback Sandwich December 2010
3 comments”