I wrote a song for you, and all the things you do
03.03.06, 1:09 pm

Oh man, the state of this. Last night turned into a huge fuck-off celebration without me even realising. I�m feeling more than a wee bit dizzy (am I still drunk in fact?) and out of it, but I shall attempt to type at least a few paragraphs before I ambush my wonderful blue bed.

So I went off to the pub last night to meet B and Kull and Paddy, who brought his housemate Pete and other assorted friends, and spent the evening like I usually do, i.e. talking too much, making really nobby comments and drinking Southern Comfort and lemonade like it�s water. It was very much a total, �Woo us, we got 2:1 averages!� Drunkness ensued, and for some reason we got into a pointless argument about which county Bristol is in. This resulted in Paddy ringing 118 212, which is a cheapo version of 118 118 and just called �Maureen�. 118 118 is Directory Inquires, for all you American kids. Anyway, apparently when you text this service for a phone number it�ll send you a text back with that number, and then finish it off with �love Maureen x�. So for some reason Paddy rang this up and the poor operator on the other end got: �Hi there Maureen, we�ve got a spot of bother here. We�re trying to work out which county Bristol is in; do you happen to know? Oh, well couldn�t you just type it into your system or something and find out? No? Well okay then, thanks for your help anyway, Maureen!� Poor bemused woman who wasn�t even called Maureen in the first place. And I think Bristol�s in the county of Avon, for the record.

We got turfed out about quarter past twelve, and whilst the rest of the kids went off to Fuzz we decided to go back to Paddy�s, for reasons I really can�t remember. We ended up talking till half four in the morning, drinking White Russians and playing Proper Travel Guess Who. Proper Travel Guess Who is very similar to Guess Who, except instead of asking questions like �Do they have blue eyes?� or �Are they wearing a hat?�, you ask questions like: �If you squint, could the face of yours look a bit like a tomato?� or �Would yours be likely to lick a cat�s face?� or �Could yours be a captain of the Starship Enterprise?� or �On a scale of 1-7, how likely is it that yours would feature in a Dolmio advert?� or finally, offered by B and completely lowering the tone, �Does yours look like they�ve got something shoved up their arse? Like I�m talking a big fat black dildo�. Needless to say, no one ever actually won.

I was just a little too drunk� I left a voicemail message beginning with something like, �Hey chicken egg. Man, state of this - I�m currently stood in Paddy�s bathroom and I�ve had a wee, but I�m going to take you downstairs now so you don�t have to hear the sound of the flush and stuff.� Just� god. Nobody needs to know Holly, seriously. And I can�t remember what else I said either; hopefully nothing too mortifying.

We also cracked out a Nina Simone CD and crooned along to I Got Life � I swear I have sent every housekid that song after I downloaded it about a week ago. It�s the best singing-to-yourself-in-the-mirror song ever. And then they started talking about how they were all really bad at singing, and I stuck my hand up and said that I wasn�t bad, for the record, and consequently they made me get Neil�s crappy acoustic with the two knackered strings out of his room and sing them some stuff. My voice was completely shot by then from too much talking and evil phlegm, but me and Paddy still sang along to Wonderwall and Yellow and Mrs Robinson and tried to ignore how shit the guitar sounded. I�m afraid Nina Simone was blatantly the best overall performer by far.

Ended up staying the night because it was so late, and my house is a good fifteen minutes away from Paddy�s. Kull stayed too and kipped on the sofa; Paddy gave me his bed and slept in Neil�s room. I can�t even really describe how it all made me feel; his bed all smelt of him and his everyday stuff was scattered around everywhere and� no, no I can�t describe it. We also shared this unspoken moment when he came into his room to say goodnight, where we both just stood there smiling at each other, each still a little drunk. For me, it was a whole not wanting him to leave, wanting to carry on talking the night away or whatever. I don�t know what it was for him. Got only three hours sleep and spent the morning blobbed in front of the telly with lots of cups of tea, before staggering home about half eleven. Some old woman said, �Morning, love� to me as I walked past, which was either due to her being very friendly or subtly mocking me because I looked so dishevelled and generally unattractive.

Obviously the whole Moment thing and the sleeping in his bed thing and the general whole thing will completely depress me once I come down from this good mood, but I guess there�s no point worrying about that right now. I�m going Primark shopping with a couple of the kids this afternoon, and hopefully Paddy�s coming along for that as well. We are spending too much time together� and thinking about this paragraph that I�m currently writing is already starting to make me feel miserable. Fuck it; I shall go hunt out a housekid to distract me. I can do the upset thing tonight or whatever.

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