Cast your mind back to the 22nd May 2017. It’s a Monday. But not just any normal Monday, it’s the first Monday’s Calling at Drapers. It had felt like months, years since I had been at Queen Mary’s favourite drinking establishment. A place where it is socially acceptable to have a cheeky puke in the toilets and wash it down with a refreshing VK -(extra Lad points if you shove a straw in the bottle and ‘strawpedo’ it down in front of a crowd.)
But I felt nervous, my pulse was racing and I was incredibly sweaty, and it wasn’t just down to the sweltering British sun…the truth is, I was going to reveal my feelings to someone and of course my friends recommended that Drapers would be the best place for me to do it. “You need to get drunk, like really fucked. That way, if it goes wrong, you can drink your sorrows away and forget about it all by the morning.” I agreed straight away.
It’s 8pm. I have primped and preened myself, I am completely shaven, I’ve moisturised every part of my body, my hair has been shoved into heated rollers and I’ve smothered on so much foundation I can hardly move my face. Success. My friends arrive and we commence our pre drinks in the kitchen. Britney Spears blasts on in the background, it’s tame, we make polite conversation, compliment each other’s outfits and bob our heads to ‘Hit Me Baby One More Time.’ And then the alcohol hits. It started off as just a few glasses of wine, but we all knew it was time to crank things up a bit. Before I know it I’ve drunk a whole bottle of Prosecco and making jaeger bombs for everyone. As I knock back my J-bomb in one foul swoop, I melt back into my seat and listen to the profound words of P.I.M.P by 50 cent. I feel courageous, powerful, I think to myself, ‘I’m a bit of P.I.M.P actually, yeah! I own this, hear my roar men, I am a player’.
We hit the “club” at 10pm. It’s empty. The girls tut and call me a dick head for being too keen; I feel the nerves engulf me, “shit!” I turn to my friend, “I’m not drunk enough for this.” She gives my hand a squeeze and moments later returns with three tequila shots, “there we go, you’ll feel better after these.” I feel fuzziness around me, as I grimace to the smoky, toxic aftertaste of the tequila, I clock him by the bar. I start to walk over, my mind is screaming at me to stop moving, but it’s too late, I sway over to him and dab in his general direction. I chuckle to myself and we chat for a while, during this time I have consumed two vodka lemonades and a pint. Everything became a blur. I wish I could tell you how it went, but I can’t remember.
I get flash backs, like my head hanging over the toilet bowl and waking up with a thumping headache. I received messages like, “lol you nightmare, you were a mess last night- it was hilarious”. Though happy to have entertained the squad, I couldn’t ignore the sinking feeling in my stomach. Do I have to get trashed to gain the courage to pursue some form of romance? Deep down I know I’m a hopeless romantic. This isn’t how I really pictured seducing someone; maybe I like drinking too much? Or maybe I’ve finally removed my head out of my ass and realised that the search for romance can’t always be a walk in the park, sometimes it’s a wobbly strut through a sticky dance floor and a groggy morning of smelling like a mini bar.