The good old days

Because flickr is mean and is trying to make me PAY to put my gorgeous photos on their site, you will not see the party photos yet. YET. Not that they're brilliant or anything. I've reviewed them and there is no picture of me with my barrel of wine or me breaking glasses with my feet so they help very little in reconstructing events. Stupid photos. Nor is there any picture of me bitch-slapping someone, which apparently I did do. So I am going to go out on a limb here and say: if there is no pictorial evidence it did not happen. Does anyone really get slapped if no one is around to photograph it? I say NO. Above is the t-shirt we had printed for the event. It depicts Sal & her pals on a glorious US flag. Before you get to saving this picture for your own personal enjoyment, let me say that it is not my chest in the photo but Ruth's. But enjoy it all the same. Your browser ain't ready for my rack yet.

For future reference, it is really bloody hard to point at your back when you have downed a barrel of wine. It is really bloody hard to FIND your back when you have downed a barrel of wine. Just so you know.

This photo proves that I am out of touch with the youth of today. When Emma presented me with my t-shirt, gaily emblazoned with my surname, and the pink, fluffy antennae-ed hairband, I said 'But...Won't we look like a shitty looking hen party?'

And she said 'Yeah, I know, BRILLIANT or what?!'

Back in my day looking like a hen party was a bad thing. Then again, in my day we didn't find a drunk boy who had just wandered outside a pub for a smoke and force him to photograph our backsides. Nor did we choose the middle of Tramore's Main Street for this photo-shoot, nor did we roar 'Hey shitface, screw you- I'm posing here!' at passing automobiles.