[Copied from my external BLOG, which has pweddy pictures]
When it comes to alcohol, I’m a Magners kind of girl. I might have a Pear or Summerfruits Kopperberg, a Jacques fruit cider if I’m feeling saucy, and perhaps a Bulmers if they’ve nothing else on offer!
One thing’s for sure, though; something you can absolutely count on. I will drink some form of cider. None of this ‘sours’ rubbish, no whimpish ‘Archers and lemonade’ (though it does taste nice, I shan’t lie), and no bloody Rosé! Cider suits me just fine…Usually.
Now given that I’m tighter than a crab’s arse with my money, it’s a rare occasion that I stray from my usual, manly choice of beverage on a night out. For one, you’re commonly presented with an entire bottle and a glass, which psychologically makes me feel as though I’ve purchased more than just a test-tube of water for my money, and on a student budget that can be difficult to avoid.
Cider has its setbacks, though. For one, it’s customary to appear blokish when swigging your cider; but don’t bother trying to avoid it, because it’s impossible. I’ve tried pouring the frothing, golden substance into dainty feminine glasses; I’ve tried sipping in a child-like fashion through a straw, and just about every leg-crossing, bust-protruding pose in which to strike whilst I drink it. But short of hiding it in a brown bag and taking naughty swigs at the back table, nothing works!
I often receive a few rolled-eyes and tongues-in-cheek from my friends when I make my order, and although men might avoid the girl that could drink them under the table like the plague, I’m usually content with my apple-juice.
Last night, however, was different; my friend suggested I have a couple of cocktails with her before we rang for the taxi, and rather than being a party-pooping bore, I thought ‘what the heck!?’. They smelled so candy-licious that I was almost convinced I’d be gulping cherryade, and so I eagerly held out my glass. I ended up guzzling down three “Woo-Woo”s and one “Sex On The Beach”, before leaving the house feeling happy as a clam.
On arriving at the cool, dimly-lit bar, I assumed I’d be ordering my single bottle of cider and that’d be me set for the evening. But once I’d clocked those glittering menus, with their 2-for-£5 offer on more fruitilicious cocktails, I simply couldn’t resist the luring fun of it all. We took turns in buying, and I consumed Tecquila Sunrise, Long-Island-Iced-Tea, two shots entitled ‘Blowjob’ (which had the peculiar taste of a mint Cornetto!) and lastly, a Carrie Bradshaw Cosmopolitan. After that I gave into trying an Archers and lemonade, which plunged nicely into the highly varied concoction that already sloshed about my stomach. If I drank any more than that, I can no longer remember.
Then commenced the giggling, photo-snapping events of every fabulous evening, and I left the place on a high note. I wish, however, that I’d had the sense to leave the evening there. But we’d made plans to go clubbing, and so I tottered off down the highstreet in my aching heels, and paid £7 for entry (I know!).
The club was 3-floors of pumping, steamy club-goodness, and 40-minutes into boogey-time, I made for the bar to buy a Smirnoff. It wasn’t until I finally stood still, however, that I came over all claustrophobic; bodies writhed everywhere and I couldn’t decipher a single exit. I became fish-belly pale, hot, and excreted a cold sweat. Within moments the room started spinning, and I could only thank my lucky stars I had a friend with me to guide my quivering-wreck of a body out of that place, before I gave someone’s shoes a rather disgusting make-over.
Being a sweetheart, she asked if I wanted to leave, and got a taxi back with me. By the time I crawled into bed that night, my head was splitting. Despite having a fantastic evening ‘til that point, I couldn’t help but regret my greed, and my weakness above it all; I felt like a school-kid again, venturing into the unexplored world of drinking. I thoroughly enjoyed the cocktails, but have learnt to adjust myself to a new set of limits. But I’m pleased to announce I shall be returning to my beloved Magners, whom I know and trust so well, and who hasn’t made a teetering trollop of me yet. I guess you can take the girl out of the cider, but you can’t take the cider out of the girl.
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