I kinda had a hangover this morning. For like fifteen minutes. I was reading a book and this guy was attempting suicide with some sleeping pills and a bottle of vodka and I was like 'Uh-oh, vodka,' and I had to put the book away and lie down on the floor for a while. Then I got up and ate a tuna sandwich and watched the really creepy bit in The Way You Were where Katie practically rapes poor, drunk Hubble and he passes out on top of her. My hangovers are thankfully few and extremely short. And cured by tuna and melodrama.
People often say to me, 'Lucy, why are you constantly singing?'. I say it is to share the beautiful music and launch into a bar or two of that deadly Paris to Berlin song. Then I get a smack. Honestly though, I don't know if I can tell you why I am always singing. It's not really my secret to tell: it's Aoife's too. Will I? Oh, okay then. Sometimes I sing because I hate everyone around me and want to make them unhappy but in the main it's because I'm a drunk. Aoife taught me, long ago, that the best way to blot out unbidden drunken memories returning suddenly is to sing very loudly and very badly. There you are, going about your daily business and suddenly you remember saying or doing something extremely stupid the night before and because you have reached a point in your life where cringing and screaming just won't cut it you instead start roaring out inane lyrics at the top of your lungs.
People near you will look bewildered and possibly pained and will say 'what? Why would you do that, why?' and you will laugh madly and say 'Ah, just remembering something highly amusing from last night'. And then others will think you live in a wondrous, magical jukebox of a world with a kicking soundtrack and exhilarating tales.
When really you are just a belligerent drunk who is trying to get she held forth for half an hour on why Fall Out Boy is the best band ever to some random young man she met whilst out having a cigarette. In a nutshell, what I'm saying is that mad, furious bellowing is better than reflecting on painful matters. I like to avoid any extraneous thinking if I can at all help it.
8 comments:
Dont worry. I tried to chat up some bloke by asking him whether he said baked potato or jacket potato. He was a yank ok? This Im STILL trying to erase from memory.
I 'complimented' a girl by telling her that I liked her more when she had a fat arse, because there was "more to hold on to" - she cried.
I then tried convincing an angry pro-rugby player twice my size that he was a Samoan named Semo Sititi, he wasn't.
That was shortly followed by me flooring myself with a swift taxi door to the face.
I'll be singing very loudly today.
that jacket/ baked potato line is fucking brilliant! hahaha
i'd love it if random people asked me that question.
Obviously i don't actually need any help with chatting women up, but that one's definately being taken note of.
One time I got so drunk I pooped on the floor, and the next morning I had to make this uncomfortable phone call to ask my girlfriend if she had been so angry at me that she had pooped on my floor and...
HOT AND FRESH OUT THE KITCHEN
MAMA ROLLIN' THAT BODY
GOT EVERY MAN IN HERE WISHIN'
Hey. It works. I feel better now. Thanks, Lucy! Thanks, R. Kelly!
Spelt: definitely fuzzy
Try convincing my friends that my line is genius Fuzzbrian. 2 months on one of them will randomly go "jacket or baked... fuck me, what were you thinking."
Use it this weekend and report back.
Consecutive posts on the Irish and 'singing'. I rest my case.
no posts in a week my god lucy are u alive !!!!????
Post a Comment