Friday 13 February 2009

School of rock.

We had a bit of an open-house day at our flat last Saturday. An opportunity to catch up with all the people who've been wanting to visit over the past few months, but who we haven't been able to see because The Bullshit got in the way. It was what my Mum would call a 'gathering'. But then she'll do anything to avoid the word 'party'. Gathering implies Monopoly and Twiglets and last tube home. Party implies gatecrashers and irritated neighbours and fag burns in the sofa. But, given our worktop-long row of spirit bottles, a table full of cava, the Beastie Boys played at volume and the fact that I was wearing heels indoors, I think we can safely label Saturday the latter. (We had Twiglets as well, mind. I mean, bloody hell, it's not a party without Twiglets. Not even a gathering.)

And, as is customary at parties, I got drunk. Which, I'm sure, is just a normal Saturday night to many of you. But not for this cancer patient. For me, getting drunk at home with mates is positively throw-your-TV-out-the-window, set-fire-to-a-million-quid, drive-a-car-into-a-swimming-pool rock 'n' roll. Of course having had The Bullshit hardly does wonders for your drinking prowess (making me the perfect credit-crunch date). And, judging by my mammoth hangover the following day, it doesn't do an awful lot for your ability to shake it off, either. I felt sick, couldn't hold my brew for shaking, spoke in a voice that you could gravel a driveway with and had a head so painful I felt like I'd had a run-in with Chris Brown. (Ooh, topical.) Man, I felt like hell. But it was the sweetest hangover I've ever had.

Since June, whenever I've felt like shit, it's been for an equally shitty reason. But feeling like shit because I'd drunk too much (translation: a modest amount for most people) was marvellous; my emancipatory rebirth into normal life. And, baby, I worked it. I went to bed in full make-up. I made a grease-tastic bacon, egg and tomato ketchup sandwich when I got up. I watched sport on the sofa in the clothes I fell asleep in, then retired to my memory foam when sitting upright became too much effort. I watched the Sex and the City movie twice (second time with director's commentary) and ate an entire box of Green & Black's chocolates. To myself. (And I thought I wasn't girly.) I caught up on Coronation Street over a beef curry with egg fried rice and chips, then polished off the prawn crackers during an episode of Shameless. (Week five weigh-in: cancelled.) It was a glorious, lardy Sunday, and I went to bed early with a contented smile on my face, nestling my cheeks into a pillow of eyeliner-smudge and prawn-cracker dust. This, I thought, is what normal people do.

My flirt with normality didn't stop at the weekend. Because, just when I thought the reckless abandon of my cancer shackles had reached its Twiglet-eating, dancing-in-the-living-room pinnacle, I pushed ordinary life to its limits on Monday and went into the office for a few hours. And, lawks, things have changed since I've been holed up in my Bullshit bubble. Lots of lovely Soho shops have closed. There was a new security code on the front door. Different faces sat at different desks. I had a new log-in. Same old weak tea in chipped mugs, mind, but there's something quite poetic about that. I might be slowly rejoining an alien world with my blinking, newborn vision, but it's good to know that some of the old stuff remains the same. (Seems the baby metaphor extends further than my fluffy head, then.)

You might think all this rather boring of me. You probably had a Saturday night like an episode of Skins and ditched work on Monday morning to go drinking in Camden with the Gallaghers, and here's me harping on about getting pissed at home and enthusing about a day in the office as though I'm the new Keith Moon. But I guess it just depends on your perspective of what constitutes a good time. I appreciate that this is kids stuff, but given that over the last few months, my definition of a good time has been baking in my pyjamas during Women's Hour, these are lessons I need to re-learn. Right now I'm in party-school kindergarten (more McFly than Metallica). 

House parties and Twiglets and curries over Corrie... I know. It's hardly rock 'n' roll. But I like it.


Anonymous said...

I don't know about that. Psychotropic drugs, waking up feeling like shit with a strange new tattoo and no hair or eyebrows is as rock and roll as it gets.

Anonymous said...

Aaaaaahhhhh, getting pissed. And a GATHERING no less. Good for you, long may it continue. God knows us Bullshitters need a more-than-hefty dose of REAL reality, you know, life, once in a while. As opposed to the dose of "you've got the Bullshit" reality.

I watched some Billy Connolly yesterday and laughed like I haven't for months. So beautifully Politically Incorrect (on the Islamic promise of 53 virgins in paradise for martyrs; "that's a PUNISHMENT. Give me two fire-breathing hoors any day, that's a reward!"). There's a man that's grounded if you ask me. I'd like to see The Bullshit get the better of him - not that I want him to have it, oh you know what I mean!

Anyway, more power to your elbow, chuck.

Nicky said...

You go girl! I am sure your alcohol tolerance will come back :) said...

Ah I am very familiar with this one. In december, i went to a house party and ON THE WAY I went to asda without thinking about it! Without considering my energy levels!


Anonymous said...

Be careful how you draw your comparisons mate – I’ve not been in treatment and your party was definitely the most exciting thing that’s happened to me in 2009. And I quite like Woman’s Hour actually. Normality rocks. Welcome back. x

Unknown said...

Your rediscovery of things really reminds me of the TV programme Samantha Who? starring Christina Applegate, who just so happens to be a breast cancer sufferer herself. If you haven't seen it, check it out.

Anonymous said...

Keith Moon can suck it as we say over here. (May he rest). What's a man who had to have an entire blood transfusion to pass through US customs got on you, who has been through so, so much worse? No wait, that wasn't Keith Moon it was that other one Keith Richards dammit. Anyhoo, you're a tough nut. I'm pathetic and can't even go to bed without cleaning my teeth for fuck's sake. crap. You rule and have always been way more rock 'n' roll than any of us. Miss you and love you. Ant xxxxxxxxxxxx p.s. that Chris Brown chat HAS to happen. Am getting on the e-mail stat.

Nonamoose said...

From one credit crunch date to another - you go girl!! It all sounds like fun and this entry made me really happy for you :0)

Here's to party-school kindergarten! (Me, I'm not anywhere near the playground yet lol)

Take good care

wakeupandsmellthecoffee said...

As you say, it's not a party without Twiglets. I hope you have many, many more hangovers, and that's not something I'd normally wish for anybody. Not that I don't like you. But hangovers tell you you're alive -- miserable but alive. Keep on partying, girl.