The MAD Blog Awards 2012 (Squirm.)
I think in the end I had to promise him I wouldn’t get drunk.
‘You will though!’ he had huffily called through from the bedroom where he was busy slamming down his work bag and heavy handedly taking out his frustration at me, on the bedroom fittings, opening windows making sure they banged and clattered loudly.
It was his own special passive aggressive way of letting me know just how annoyed he was that I had a social life and I intended to use it (whatever!)
‘You always say you won’t get drunk, but you always do, and Lexy, I am sick to death of having to pick up the pieces the next day!’ he said, padding barefoot in to the kitchen behind me.
During this unnecessary (completely necessary) and totally unfair (so fair) tirade I had slowly and carefully, so I didn’t miss a single word, taken two slices of bread out of the toaster and placed them on the counter.
‘You are irresponsible and out of control once you have had a drink Lex ’ he continued from behind me with a heavy sigh.
I placed the butter knife down, closed my eyes and counted to ten, trying to keep my temper in check.
I hated it when he behaved like a geriatric!
Why must he be so boring?
‘Anyone would think you needed alcohol to have a good time, but then you never do, you are always sick, usually all over me and then you cry for hours on end and blah blah blah. I mean I am sure if blah blah blah it would be a danger and I blah blah blah…’
It was once I had picked the knife back up and was busy buttering my bread and ramming the ham on top of it, as if the pig itself had personally done me an injustice, that I eventually could not bite my tongue any longer.
“You’ve gone too far!!! Screw you Irish one!’ I eventually exploded turning to face him angrily, in a whirl of butter knife, bread and hair. “If you don’t like being with me, then how about you hit the road! We aren’t married! I am an adult you loser, and you are not my sodding dad! I have enough people …”
‘Fuck off Lexy. One day maybe I will.’
And that had been the end of it.
We finally did make up, we made up the way we always made up, the tried and tested way.
We made up by Successfully ignoring each other for the rest of the night and eventually letting 9 hours of unbroken sleep clear the air.
I must pause here at the mention of 9 hours unbroken sleep,
I need a minute’s silence for the death of the 9 hours unbroken sleep.
May the 9 hours unbroken sleep rest in peace.
I was 28.
We had been together 6 months.
He had moved in.
(I am still thinking about 9 hours unbroken sleep.)
He was trying to control me (he wasn’t) and I was sick of it.
I wanted to go out, and ok, so I promised eventually that I wouldn’t drink so he would stop having a go at me but how Dare he try to suggest I couldn’t even go to a concert with a colleague without getting raging drunk and making a fool of myself (I couldn’t) in the first place?
How dare he moan at having to look after me! That’s what he was there to do!
That’s what a REL-ATION-SHIP was!
And really! I mean I hardly ever got drunk (on a Tuesday) anyway! SO who the hell was he to try and tell me what to do?
I do not remember much from that fateful evening as it happens, but my colleague told me 3 days later, when I dared to show my face in work again, that there had been a giant elephant and the band of my youth, who I had been so desperate to see, had all climbed on, and they had indeed played my favourite track and that yes I had been there and had sang along.
‘I sang along? How can I not remember that?’ I asked as Bev recounted the concert and I sat shaking my head slightly in the cafeteria, picking at a salad with my fork and trying to avoid the Irish one’s glare from over by the coffee stand (we had broken up again on the back of me vomiting all over him.)
‘Yes.’ Beverley replied with a glint in her eye ‘you did. Surely you must remember, because That babes, was right after you wet yourself.’
I coughed on a particularly spiky morsel of salad and inadvertently spat a full cherry tomato back on to her plate, where it plopped in to her spaghetti Carbonara with some force, and caused a little back splash of gloopy sauce to splat on to her nearly neon pink shirt.
As she picked my half chewed tomato from her plate with a look of amused disgust on her face and popped it in to my white plastic drinking cup, I coughed and spluttered and died a little, in the chair opposite her.
Eventually silence resumed and I sat, aghast for a jolly good while.
She said nothing, letting the full meaning of what she had told me sink in.
‘I wet myself?’ I asked in whispered tones, leaning in to her now, pushing my plate away, my appetite having completely vanished, and glancing over at the Irish one on the other side of the cafeteria still shooting me evils, in case he had developed super sonic hearing and could actually radio in on the extent of my bad behaviour ‘oh my god.’
Although there is the mystery of my wet jeans solved, I thought to myself, resting my forehead on the damp Formica table, not caring now, who saw me.
‘Yes you did.’ Bev’s voice continued from above me, ‘That was right after you told the ten year old standing next to you that you saw dead people and hated it when they woke you up at night.’ She paused for dramatic effect and I groaned in response.
‘I was busy arguing with her mother trying to defend you and what you have been through and when I turned around you announced you had peed and you were soaked.’
‘Oh my god. I am so ashamed. Why didn’t I go to the toilet?’ I asked lifting my head up only slightly so I could make eye contact with her. Begging her silently to tell me none of this had happened.
‘You said it made sense to wee where you were standing, as no one would notice and you really didn’t want to miss your childhood song.’
I squirmed in my seat.
I was this girl’s manager.
Did I forget to mention that?
At the time of the concert I was Bev’s manager.
She had invited me and I probably shouldn’t have gone.
But as I mentioned earlier, my intention was not to drink.
‘Then you showed me your nipple.’
My head hit the Formica table once more as she howled with laughter above me.
‘Oh Bev. I can’t believe it. Did it end there? Tell me it ended there! In fact, Can we just forget it ever happened?’ I begged this from below the table, staring at my thighs and wondering if it was too late to invent a time machine.
She tore off a tiny piece of garlic bread and as I brought myself upright once more, glancing towards the Irish one who was now staring over, Puce, she fixed me with an evil grin.
‘Nope’ she said as she popped the bread in her mouth and methodically began to chew. She was enjoying this. ‘I feel it would be cruel if I didn’t inform you of your complete goings on during the tram journey home.’
‘Oh please don’t!’ I semi laughed, trying to win back some humility by pretending I was ok with how I had behaved and not absolutely dying of shame inside.
‘But it was very exciting. You decided you needed a wee urgently this time, so you crept in to a bunch of trees. I stood on the road waiting for you and after a while you emerged informing me, and all the other people leaving the concert that you had just been fingered by a bush.’
I just stared at her.
‘At the top of your voice.’ You then repeated this, numerous times on the tram, and rang your dad to tell him, and then you rang the Irish one.’
That explains radio Silence off my dad then.
I may have been sat there for an hour, or it may have been 3 weeks. But I just sat and let this all sink in, while she grinned at me.
A bush fingered me? I was fingered by a bush?
Oh my god.
It’s like a truly awful version of Dirty dancing.
No carrying a watermelon for me though, this wasn’t Hollywood!
Just a porno bush.
‘I hand delivered you to the Irish one practically in a coma.’ She finished, throwing her napkin on her plate ‘you were brilliant. Hands down Lexy, you are the best manager I’ve ever had.’
If it wasn’t for the cafeteria closing, I honestly think I would still be sat there now, just staring off in to the deep cavern of my shame!
That was the same night I had laid on my back after apparently unsuccessfully convincing the Irish one I wasn’t drunk and hadn’t been drinking at all! Honest! And had then gone on to nearly choke to death in my sleep but instead had just vomited all over him and me (and the dog – he just shouted this from the kitchen) in the middle of our king size bed.
A month later, as I hadn’t left the house, I got pregnant. (Make up sex.)
And we all know what happened then.
To this day, I am unable to listen to Take That without cringing.
Thankfully Bev is now one of my best friends and I no longer manage her.
But this kind of explains why I have been absent since… well since the awards.
I have been suffering with an illness commonly known as ‘mortification.’
A mortification of Take That! Sized proportions.
You know that filter thing that most people have that stops them talking to Myleene Klass about vaginal discharge and scabies? Yeah…Well although I have spent a lot of money in therapy searching for mine, well, it turns out- I don’t have one.
I am really sorry Myleene. *Cringe*
You know that voice in your head that says ‘smile nicely’ when you see a camera, don’t lie down and fake depression and definitely don’t try and cram a whole cake in your mouth, give people the V’s or show people your bottom? Well that voice was comatose by booze.
I think in my acceptance speech I may have called the Irish one annoying and said that my little boy wasn’t the point of my existence but that actually twitter was.
I absolutely don’t mean that. (Much.)
(Apart from the Irish one being annoying, bit.)
My little boy is the reason I am still here. He is definitely the point in my existence ok? (Oh the shame!)
I think what I meant to say when I drunkenly stumbled on to that podium to accept my award was;
Thank you for your countless support, for carrying me through the hard times and for enjoying the good times with me. My readers, my friends and my family, I couldn’t have done it without you, my little boy and, really, the Irish one isn’t that annoying (on a Tuesday.)
I also should have Thanked Sally, because the thought of this event did keep me going during some tough times over the summer.
I won’t be back here until I can talk about the evening without cringing.
So it may be a while.
On the plus side though I learnt a valuable lesson.
I can’t hold my Vodka. (And now it is not only Take That, which makes me cringe, but looking at my award does too!)
I’d also like to thank The Boy and Me for being brilliant and sharing a room with me and for not laughing when I did a million embarrassing things. She is wonderful. Truly precious. I’d also like to thank her for educating me on what frost bite feels like and teaching me to appreciate Central heating.
I’d also like to thank the Sainsbury’s lady for the Ipad and also apologise to the Sainsbury’s lady for pretending to grab her boob in the acceptance photo, and thinking this would be funny.
It wasn’t big and it wasn’t clever.
As far as nights go though, it was wonderful. ( I wasn’t sick on anyone as far as I am aware!!! RESULT! (Especially for the Boy and Me.)
Thank you to everyone who voted for me and who has written me in to follow up blogs and not mentioned I was paralytic and at one point managed to nearly rugby tackle Myleene. (Sorry Myleene – you are fabulous. Sorry for swearing. But seriously, who is Caitlin Moran?) I am sorry if I upset, annoyed or irritated anyone (so so sorry Sonia!) when my paranoia got out of hand…
I loved every second. I think, from what I remember…
Wanna see my nipple now?