As it’s Pride, we’ve made a list of our LEAST PROUD MOMENTS!
Recognising Jamelia when it wasn’t Jamelia
So when I worked at a wanky fashion magazine whose name we shan’t mention, I used to get invited to loads of silly parties. It was probably mostly because my name is Dylan Jones and they thought it was Dylan Jones from GQ. Oh well. Got a few free drinks out of it.
Anyway, this was for Diet Coke’s birthday party, lol. There were lots of celebs there (if you count DJ/international slut Bip Ling as a celebrity).
I was queuing for some shit wine with my friend Nini, and we saw a beautiful lady with a high sleek ponytail in front of us. I was adamant that it was Superstar chanteuse and Loose Women guest star Jamelia, and kept pointing and going “LOOK IT’S JAMELIA!”
When we got our drinks, we saw the actual Jamelia stood behind us with her arms folded, looking very unimpressed. #ForEveryLastBruiseYouGaveMe
Ditched by a one night stand
When I used to live in a squat in Camden, I pulled a gorgeous, hairy-forearmed, quartz-eyed Irish man. He was called Adrien. Adain maybe.
Something like that. And he was wearing a gorgeous tort necklace, a shimmering twist of Irish gold. It was probably from Primark and made of copper.
But whatevs. Anyway I bundled him onto the nightbus and whisked him back to my gaff, a crumbling townhouse barely clinging onto the side of a pub on Mornington Terrace, home to me and ten straight boys. My “bedroom” was a bare mattress under the staircase.
He took one look at it, said “sorry mate, no” and left. Oh well.
Throwing myself on the pavement outside Ku Bar
A girl tried to push in front of me in the queue for Ku Klub. I was NOT HAVING IT.
I’d had a few Red Bulls and was feeling dramatic. So when she nudged me a little bit, I decided to take issue with her, and HURLED myself onto the pavement, then pointed to her and screamed “SHE PUSHED ME!”
The bouncers threw her out. Quite right too.
My housemate was sick on me
A story about someone being sick on you is bad enough, but this is worse.
When I lived in a totes bohemian house in Peckham with tie-dye throws and wooden beams and things, my housemates once had a little acid party, which I was uninvolved in (no judgement, I just didn’t feel like it, I was a bit tired).
Whilst they were spinning around in the living room, I went to the toilet to do a number two, as you do. At that moment, the narcotics didn’t agree with one of them, and they burst in to be sick, except I was there. On the toilet. So they vomited. On me. While I was on the toilet.
Trying to tap onto a bus with a sachet of lube
A girl tried to push in front of me in the queue for Ku Klub. I was NOT HAVING IT. I’d had a few Red Bulls and was feeling dramatic.
So when she nudged me a little bit, I decided to take issue with her, and HURLED myself onto the pavement, then pointed to her and screamed “SHE PUSHED ME!” The bouncers threw her out. Quite right too.
Too Drunk to Fuck
Team QX went out for drinks and, surprise surprise, it descended into chaos.
Coats were lost, burgers were smashed into Stacey in Accounts’ face, drinks were spilled and most of us ended up at BOMBSHELL at the Shadow Lounge.
I got myself shitfaced and hailed a cab back to Hackney. Of course, on the way, I decided to drunkenly fire up my Grindr and look for a li’l sumthin’ sumthin’.
I arranged to meet up with a nice Colombian gentleman at his flat in Hackney road. Upon arrival, he invited me in and we stood in his kitchen as I said something to the effect of “yoooaaaallryyyyyte yerr?” and lunged at him for a big wet kiss.
He dodged it and said quite sweetly “You’re too drunk to fuck. We’ll do this another time’. He then asked me to leave his home, but not before offering me a lovely party favour for the journey home.
Too Drunk to Date
Upon completing an incredibly boozy “rehearsal session” with his comedy group, ol’ slaggy Annie whips out the Grindr again and starts looking for new victims. Arranges to meet a boy in a bar one street from rehearsal space.
Somehow manages to walk five streets in the wrong direction and then calls him, accusing him of “TRYING TO FUCK [ME] UP”.
Eventually makes it to the bar and screams ‘BUENOS DIAS BITCH” at date, who is Israeli. Date stands up, walks out and never looks back. Dom Top posts miserable Facebook status about how there are no “genuine guys” anymore.
Brighton Pride 2007
My first visit to Brighton Pride culminated in me sticking my tongue down the throat of a fat bloater in a grubby grey tracksuit. Four paces from the current boyfriend. Who had driven me to Brighton. In a Bentley.
Then I passed out and had to be carried back to the hotel. That he had paid for. Why am I single, you ask? Who knows, babe, who knows?
Wet’n’Wild
You know how it goes. Invite Grindr shag over. Get mildly disappointed by them when they arrive. Get down to it anyway.
Then get told by said shag that he wants to “put you in a paddling pool, and cover you in jelly and custard, get you really messy and then play with you in the pool”. Laugh and say it’s not your thing. Shag gets stroppy and storms off to the bathroom, then leaves the house.
Go to bed. Wake up next morning and discover he’s pissed all over your bathroom floor as a protest against you laughing at his ‘sploshing’ fantasy (YES THAT IS WHAT IT IS ACTUALLY CALLED).
Brighton Pride 2008
A delightful new “friend” gave me a delightful new “herbal high”. I assumed taking it would have the same effects as smoking a joint, because…well, HERBAL.
Natural goodness from the earth ‘n’ shit.
Anyway, I swallowed a pill the size of an anal suppository and then spent the next day and a half hiding behind a white sheet hanging on a clothesline in a stranger’s garden, convinced that the wind was whispering threats to me.
Woodside Park
Took a massive Greek home from G-A-Y bar. We went back to his. I fell asleep on the tube and was too busy trying to get his dick out of his trousers on the street to notice where we were.
Woke up at 10am already two hours late for work, with nipples so red-raw they looked like beef Carpaccio. In WOODSIDE PARK. At a house 25 minutes’ walk from the station.
When I had to be in ACTON at 8am. Bowled into work at approximately midday reeking of gin and jizz. Typed email to best friend regarding the sore nipples.
Was later called into HR and asked to read said email aloud to the department after someone had tipped them off that I was sending “offensive content”.
I boldly read the email aloud to the four HR officers assembled. One asked “Can you tell me why you think this might be inappropriate?” to which I replied “This is DISCRIMINATION, we wouldn’t be having this chat if I’d said I had a sore thumb.” Her exasperated response: “…just get out.”
The Flannel
We’ve all lived in a flatshare where there’s one total weirdo, one obnoxious cunt and everybody else is caught in the crossfire. I am the obnoxious cunt. One of my other flatmates was the total weirdo.
We did not gel. So much so in fact that one evening I returned from Trannyshack, having sampled absinthe for the first time, then began pounding on his bedroom door screaming “COME OUT AND FACE ME”.
When he did not ‘come out and face me’, the other members of the household dragged me away from the door, but not before I screeched out a parting comment of “You’re probably in there fucking a rolled-up wet flannel, pretending that it’s your mum.”
And you know what? I BET HE WAS.
Pissed
One lovely night at the late Joiners Arms (may she rest), I got myself a bit drunk. I drank so much that my bladder started to look like a pregnant belly. So I took myself to the bathroom, entered a cubicle and unzipped my fly.
As I sighed in relief and admired the Spanish-language graffiti emblazoned upon the walls of the cubicle, I felt a warmth. Coursing down the inside of my left leg. Confused, I looked down to see a huge, black streak of urine soaking through my light grey jeans.
I would appear that in my haste to pee, I hadn’t quite pulled my penis all the way free of my jeans. Mortified, I bolted out of the loos, desperately trying to conceal the hot, wet streak of shame adorning my left leg.
In what I thought was a moment of genius, I spotted a jug of water on the bar, and decided to pour the entire thing over myself to explain the stain. This move did not seem quite as genius on the nightbus home after.
In November. Still, least nobody knew I’d pissed my pants. Well, until now.