Cattle Market Blues
My eyes are bleary and want to weep
I have not had my eight hours sleep
I haaaaaaave noooot haaaaaad mmyyyyyyy eight hours sleeeeeeep.
I spent a large proportion of last night humouring the BF who refused to take no for an answer when I said I didn’t want to go to a club because I had to get up in the morning. My flat is ten minutes from his office, so when I crawled out of bed at 7.15 this morning, after three and a half hours sleep, he lolled about with his eyes half shut complaining about the noise. He got to work at 10.30. The bastard.
The club was awful. I had to stand at the bar for 15 minutes before being charged the price of a small tropical island for two bottles of Sol.
The music was really bad R’n’B, and the DJ was uninspiring to say the least. Sample: “Come on ladies, let’s see that booty bonanza. Hey, hey! – security down here at the front!” I was amused to watch the resulting ruckus, during which two girls in unflattering skimpy tops were hauled, kicking and biting, out of the door and thrown into the street. Judging from the general quality of the dancing, they must have been doing something vile to deserve that punishment. It seemed to be a case of anything goes in the quest to dip your tongue in someone else’s stomach acid.
I sat there, open mouthed, as a posse of enormous, completely trolleyed, tattooed men in dirty string vests barrelled in and started trying to pull (successfully) the selection of pasty fashion clones in frilly mini skirts and boob tubes.
I wasn’t in a good mood anyway, because I didn’t want to be there, I couldn’t hear anything, and I had period pains. Also, in case you haven’t realised it by now I’m a totally unreconstructed snob. I do generally try not to judge people without meeting them, but I firmly believe that there are some things you don’t wear if your legs look like flesh coloured tights packed with week old tangerines, and you’re prepared to stand around in public with a guy’s hand inside your pants. And if you go down that route, you have only yourself to blame.
I haven’t been in a meat market like that for many years, and I have to say, thank Satan and all his evil minions for that.
Anyway, I got in a huff and left. This morning I have terrible PMT, and am feeling guilty for shouting at the BF, particularly when we only have a limited amount of time together.
On the other hand, he is still a bastard.
Chocolate now.
P.S. I don’t always moan about things, and heap scorn on unsuspecting people. Honest. Not even the really lovely American girl I met at a barbeque last night who thought I was serious when I said that my primary school in Wigan made us all leave at the age of seven to go into forced labour as chimney sweeps.
I have not had my eight hours sleep
I haaaaaaave noooot haaaaaad mmyyyyyyy eight hours sleeeeeeep.
I spent a large proportion of last night humouring the BF who refused to take no for an answer when I said I didn’t want to go to a club because I had to get up in the morning. My flat is ten minutes from his office, so when I crawled out of bed at 7.15 this morning, after three and a half hours sleep, he lolled about with his eyes half shut complaining about the noise. He got to work at 10.30. The bastard.
The club was awful. I had to stand at the bar for 15 minutes before being charged the price of a small tropical island for two bottles of Sol.
The music was really bad R’n’B, and the DJ was uninspiring to say the least. Sample: “Come on ladies, let’s see that booty bonanza. Hey, hey! – security down here at the front!” I was amused to watch the resulting ruckus, during which two girls in unflattering skimpy tops were hauled, kicking and biting, out of the door and thrown into the street. Judging from the general quality of the dancing, they must have been doing something vile to deserve that punishment. It seemed to be a case of anything goes in the quest to dip your tongue in someone else’s stomach acid.
I sat there, open mouthed, as a posse of enormous, completely trolleyed, tattooed men in dirty string vests barrelled in and started trying to pull (successfully) the selection of pasty fashion clones in frilly mini skirts and boob tubes.
I wasn’t in a good mood anyway, because I didn’t want to be there, I couldn’t hear anything, and I had period pains. Also, in case you haven’t realised it by now I’m a totally unreconstructed snob. I do generally try not to judge people without meeting them, but I firmly believe that there are some things you don’t wear if your legs look like flesh coloured tights packed with week old tangerines, and you’re prepared to stand around in public with a guy’s hand inside your pants. And if you go down that route, you have only yourself to blame.
I haven’t been in a meat market like that for many years, and I have to say, thank Satan and all his evil minions for that.
Anyway, I got in a huff and left. This morning I have terrible PMT, and am feeling guilty for shouting at the BF, particularly when we only have a limited amount of time together.
On the other hand, he is still a bastard.
Chocolate now.
P.S. I don’t always moan about things, and heap scorn on unsuspecting people. Honest. Not even the really lovely American girl I met at a barbeque last night who thought I was serious when I said that my primary school in Wigan made us all leave at the age of seven to go into forced labour as chimney sweeps.
posted by Rachie at 12:02 PM
