We Never Learn

Why is it so easy to make the same mistakes over and over and over again?!
Fret not, I’m not referring to anything remotely important, where actual feelings of remorse and regret are incurred. I’m simply talking about those niggling little things that we do, that we know before we’ve even done them, are going to be looked back upon with slight unease and questionability. Those moments in time where the levels of human willpower are thrown into question.
Allow me to clarify. Last night was my dear friend Chop’s (don’t ask where the name comes from) twenty-third birthday night out. Needless to say the obligatory fancy dress theme of Cowboys and Indians was taken extremely seriously by al those involved (myself included).
The evening followed the usual pattern. A pattern, that over a five-or-so year long commitment to partying, has been established amongst my close friendship group. And this is where the mistakes begin.
Why, for example, do we still deem it necessary to ALWAYS go the same nightclub (for about four years now), despite all having expressed hatred towards the place!? And why once we’re in there do we complain about the state of the grotesque toilets?! We know that they’re a health and safety hazard because they always have been and always will be. Despite a recent refurbishment I believe the toilets to actually be worse now than pre-modernisation. The lavatories resemble chrome urinal bowls with a horse-shoe shaped piece of what can only be described as butcher’s-slab plastic screwed precariously on top. On one particularly occasion there was an actual infestation of flies in the ladies. It was at that point that we collectively decided to call it a night. I can honestly say I’ve used more pleasant facilities in a third world country.
And it gets worse. Sadly for this regrettable, yet frequently-occurring action I have no one to blame but myself!
I refer to the Apple VK.
For those lucky enough to have never tasted this fine elixir let me illustrate to the best of my abilities the kind of experience drinking one of these concoctions produces.
Packaged in a putrid green bottle, it could be mistaken for a bottle of Becks at a distance. However, saying that is comparable to saying that Jodie Marsh could be mistaken for a well-dressed, conservative, natural beauty from a distance. You see where I’m going with this.
The beverage is served with two straws (something which has always baffled me! You know the old one straight and one bent classic. What’s the point?!) Upon parting with your hard-earned three pounds, the inevitable first sip approaches... (*I’m actually cringing as I type*).
The taste. Imagine mopping the brow of a Sumo wrestler who has just finished a fight on the hottest day of the year, wringing the liquid from the cloth into a blend of 1 parts apple juice to six parts sugar and a squeeze of vinegar and you’re getting close.
The rate at which a white layer of fuzz that one of these brews can create on even the freshest of tongues (I am obsessed with cleaning my teeth and brushing my tongue) is breathtaking. Literally.
There’s more.
Without being arrogant, my friendship group is made up of some uber-hotties. We’ve got blonde-haired, blue-eyed, butter-wouldn’t melt Emma. There’s Charlotte with her perfect complexion and lean, tall physique. Chop with her smoky eyes, cheeky smile and ample bosom. Red-haired Row, who is effortlessly stylish and exudes petite pixie-ness. And there’s porcelain-skinned Laura with her gorgeous dark hair and enviable figure.
Needless to say, as a group we attract a fair bit of attention, especially when in fancy dress. Fair enough. But when the admiring glances cross over into the territory of actual physical groping, accidentally-on-purpose bashing into us and full on grinding, we are less than impressed.
Last night’s gaggle of undesirables that the club tossed our way were of the calibre you would expect in the X-factor’s reject room. You know, the ones that only get shown on TV because they were that bad.
These kind of men come in various varieties and I am seriously considering writing a guide which helps identify them from a distance. Like a nature guide to poisonous snakes. One of our newly acquired admirers had some questionably tight jeans on and repeatedly danced his way backwards into our circle, using his derriere like a battling ram. He also had halitosis, which I found out much to my disgust as he uttered the words a girl never wants to hear from this kind of species: “my mate wants your number”. Wow. If he’s anything like you, just try and hold me back! I politely declined.
Another adopted the 90’s-raver dance combined with full on body smack-downs into each member of the group one after the other. He was a persistent little bugger and still came back for more even after Row had given him numerous shoves in the opposite direction and an earful sufficient enough to scare most grown-men away in tears.
Then there was the inevitable, “can I wear your hat?” guy. Some people just don’t get the fact that if you ask for something twenty-eight times and the answer is always “No”, it is unlikely that on go twenty-nine it will miraculously become a “yes”!
It wasn’t just men though. One particular sizeable woman, who’d had a few too many VK’s and was clutching some free ‘champagne’ (aka Lambrini) like a baby would it’s milk bottle, decided to reverse into Charlotte and then verbally attack her for bumping into her. That was the final straw.
Yet despite all of these hiccups, the night was considered to be an all-round success. After all, Emma was still alive despite having been drinking for two days solid without sleep, no one had been physically injured, no one had cried and Chop the birthday girl was still in her element.
But this is the beauty of being an irrational woman. It’s perfectly OK to go out and do things that we know are going to be unpleasant/annoying/leave your mouth tasting like fur, as long as you can look back on them and laugh. Which I do. Mostly.