In her mind's eye, her new outfit hangs on the wardrobe door. An extortionate price tag still dangles from the armpit of something resembling a piece of material, just large enough to cover her knickers (if she felt like wearing any).
The plastic paid for it, not to worry.
Every new night out needs certain things, in a certain order, or it might all go horribly pear-shaped, (the night, not her body.)
It's 6pm.
Arriving home, she makes a bee-line for the corkscrew and opens the wine. Screw the glass! She takes a large swig out of the bottle, and begins to plan.
Of utmost importance is feminine hygiene, (you never know when a girl might get lucky). She runs a bath. Washes her hair, douches all the areas beers might never reach, exfoliates, smothers herself with credit card bought expensive moisturiser, and lavishly sprays a scent concocted from nature's apparently most natural flowering resources.
This takes a good hour.All the while the wine slips down nicely. She doesn't eat. After all, she is trying to lose weight.
She blow dries her hair, and then the hair straighteners iron out the hair. This process can take an hour. Not content with the look, she may well repeat process number one.
Once satisfied, the dress of little material is slipped on, and glides down over moisturised skin, to fit perfectly over the butt, which is clad in a thong, leaving little to the imagination. Out come the heels that would need a degree to be able to walk in, without resembling a waddling duck. But they do make her ass stick out in an oh so appealing way.
She opens the second bottle of wine, slips on the large hooped earrings, rolls a joint, slaps on the foundation followed by layers of eye makeup and full pouting red lipstick. This could take a good 40 minutes.
She stands, and inspects every angle of herself in front of the mirror. This can process can last anything up to 30 minutes, twisting this a way, and that a way, sucking in any nonexistent stomach until she resembles a page three model, ensuring her breasts are thrust to perfect advantage.
Once satisfied, she gulps the rest of the wine, and texts her mates to say she is en route.
It’s now 9.30pm.
It's Saturday night. He buys two six packs of lager on the way home. In his mind’s eye, he imagines the girl of his dreams draped naked over the end of his bed. Who cares how cheap she is? It's not like birds come with a price tag, is it?
He is not bothered.
Every Saturday night it's the same - birds, booze and good times. How can that ever go wrong?
It's 6PM.
Arriving home, he drops the carrier bags on the grease-covered kitchen table. The cans spill out and he grabs at them before they drop onto the kitchen floor, (which is probably dirtier than the table). He gulps down the first can of gassy, warm liquid, then a second can. Belching loudly, he considers the importance of male hygiene.
Considering the toothbrush, he realises that will ruin the taste of the third can. A piece of gum will have to do on the way out. But what if he gets lucky? Well, got to show a girl you care.
He takes a look at the sink. The plug got jammed with cigarette butts a few days ago and the hot water hasn't worked for a week. That cold water is very cold... But, what if he gets lucky? Fortunately the lager is still warm and the fizzing sensation surprisingly pleasant as he watches it splash over the parts that beers normally don't refresh.
The process of freshening up from a day in the garage has taken just under two minutes.
The lager is gone so he heads back to the fridge for another and notices the remnants of a kebab from a few days ago. Scraping off the worst of blue mould that has begun to form, he wraps it in a slice of marginally less old pepperoni pizza and munches and swigs his way back towards his bedroom.
On the way, a quick glimpse in the mirror reveals his hair needs some attention. Luckily it's dirty enough to shape into some quasi-designer quiff and a quick spray of deodorant finishes the creation off nicely.
Now, what to wear? Opening the wardrobe reveals a row of empty hangers and a half-empty bottle of coffee liqueur. Taking a gulp from the bottle and washing it down with some more lager, he's satisfied. The choice has been made for him. Searching through the pile of washing his mum has yet to collect, he selects a shirt that is somewhat less stiff with sweat than the others. That will do nicely, he thinks as a quick splash of aftershave lubricates the armpits enough for him to be able to manipulate it over his saggy, shapeless torso.
He stands and inspects himself in the mirror for a moment. Sucking in his growing gut, he's confident he'll score tonight.
Lighting up a cigarette and gulping down the rest of the liqueur and lager, he texts his mates to let them know it's party time.
It's now 6:15. (by his clock)
Midnight. Four pint's of Carling, three glasses of wine and a few shots later, she is still standing, and has now acquired the ability to look in the mirror, and see a ravishing beauty. She does not see her running mascara smudged beneath her eyes, or the lack of foundation that had sunk into the pores of her skin while doing her lap dance routine on the dance floor, thinking of how damn sexy she looked when all the blokes started leering, of course, they had acquired the same beer goggles she also had on, so everyone was happy.
Her friends shrieked with laughter every time some poor sod sitting in the corner glanced in their direction, thinking he was so into them, when in fact, the noise was driving him crazy. He was partially sober, of course.
She visits the ladies again, and checks herself in the mirror, wobbling on her degree heels while she applies lipstick, that ends up looking as if someone has smacked her in the mouth. She fiddles with her thong, and enters the cubicle slamming her bum down on the seat that has already had a fair few bums on it that evening, as well as pee's for England. There is no loo roll, so she wiggles three or four times, and stumbles to her feet, clinging to the sides of the cubicle wondering if she should turn around and vomit. She takes a deep breath, steadies herself, deciding she needs another drink.
Midnight, nine pints of Carling, half a bottle of coffee liqueur and a shot of tequila. (the latter not truly counting as it had only lingered in his stomach for a few seconds prior to being projectile vomited): along with at least three pints and a good slug of the liqueur over the bar at the Red Lion.
He’s standing on his own two feet now. Having entered the club semi-conscious wedged between two mates, a second and equally Technicolor vomiting session had lowered his blood-alcohol level to the point at which he had some control over his body. The subsequent beer hadn’t quite got rid of the taste of vomit in his mouth but a second and third had worked nicely and he was up to speed. Why, some bird had practically thrown herself at him on the dance floor. Tonight was going great!
Walking to the bar for yet another round of , he notices the group of girls for the second time. They seem to know how to have a good time, connoisseurs of a good night out, like him and his mates. Well, not quite all of them. That prick Rob has only drunk four pints and is now just sitting around like a wet blanket. It’s probably his miserable face that scared the girls off earlier. Fucking queer! If he wasn’t Gary’s mate he’d have punched his lights out by now. That would have impressed the ladies. Girls love a guy who’s a bit tasty with his fists. It’s what being a man is all about.
He dumps the next round of drinks on the table in front of Rob, mouths an expletive just to let him know of his displeasure and staggers in the direction of the gents. After wading through the inch of urine on the floor with its’ cigarette butt boats making journeys between club flyer islands he proceeds to pee on his own feet whilst standing exactly between two urinals. ‘Fuck it, it’s only processed beer’, he says to himself as capillary action draws the stinking liquid up his socks.
She's feeling randy, and does not want to go home alone tonight.
Problem is, she is struggling now to see clearly what might resemble a decent shag due to the obscene amounts of alcohol she has consumed.
She approaches the bar, on the degree heels and half-props herself onto a stool. She is very drunk, but just knows she is looking so damn hot, and pouts her lips. Before a moment has passed, a young male swaggers over, mumbling under his breath a practice chat-up line, she can almost sense his rehearsed speech,
“Come here often?”..........too cheesy
“You are the hottest thing here tonight”......too over the top
“Fancy a shag”.............too full on
Tripping he stumbles into her stool.
“Fucking hell.........so sorry love”
She sees a blushing, rather flushed boy, she squints. Is he fanciable? She squints harder. He's got two eyes, a nose and mouth, but the rest of the details escape her.
“Don't worry about it darlin! How about you buy me a drink?”
She flutters her eyelashes, pouts again, running her tongue over her lips, thrusts out her breasts, and tries to cross her legs. She misses, but makes it the second time. He grins. She's pulled. He seems an improvement on last weekend’s shag, what she remembers of it anyway.
The next morning arrives with the subtlety of a car crash. He opens his eyes vaguely aware of another presence in the room but far more aware of his pounding head and fur-lined mouth. He rolls over in bed causing a wave of nausea to wash over him like the outlet of a sewer pipe on a holiday beach.
She’s still here, whoever ‘she’ happens to be. He’s not sure. He vaguely remembers a taxi journey and some brief fumbling in the dark. A pointless, flaccid encounter ending when she had vomited a pint of prawn curry and rice over his bedroom carpet. Overnight, the stench has built up and the air in the room burns his already bloodshot eyes.
He rubs a vicious black bruise on his forearm and realises his hands are rough with embedded gravel. There had been some sort of fight. It had been quick and embarrassing for him. He’d been full of beer and aggression with a girl on his arm to impress, so he’d swung a punch at some guy just walking down the street. Unfortunately for him his opponent had been sober, and despite the sudden and unprovoked attack had blocked the punch, grabbed his wrist and using the momentum of his assailant’s beer-bloated body sent him sprawling across the pavement. What sort of waster was out on a Saturday night stone cold sober? Bastard, maybe it was time to start carrying a knife “Fucking slash him up and show what a real man does”.
The shapeless form next to him begins to stir. He watches a half digested prawn slide slowly from a mess of improbably blonde hair protruding from under the filthy sheet. A cough followed by a series of dry retches suggests she’s awake. He closes his eyes and pretends to be asleep until she leaves.
The end of a perfect night.