That Mullen one, she is dead meat. She spilt Marie's fucking Bulmers Light [I KNOW, okay? I've talked to her about what a gay drink it is but she is being difficult] all over the fucking table last night, soaking my fags and her own trousers in the process. And it wasn't even like, during an exciting bit of the match (WHAT exciting bits, I hear you ask), just during one of her stupid nerd-stories She heads the fuck off to the jacks to dry her pants and Kathy goes: 'Uh-oh, is this your handbag, Lucy?' It WAS my fucking handbag; Now it's Mullen's fucking drip-tray.
Now I am down a pack of fags and have a bag that stinks of rancid cider.
*This whole post is written in an innovative style called 'How Lucy speaks normally' after being taxed by Aoife and Donna regarding the difference between my writing style here and how I talk (being taxed by two accountants: fitting). Notice the slew of swearwords: I am a foul-mouth in real life. There's that pretentious thing again.