Christmas Day piss-up

Apparently, Christmas Day is the new Boxing Day as far as piss-ups go. We - Mira Bell and I - heard from a very reliable source (read: from our certified piss-head mate Poof Jesus) that no longer do people wait till Boxing Day to go out, but instead hit the piss one day early. Naturally, we had to test it.

There was also the mystery of my missing jacket to solve. I had managed to lose my winter coat during my bday piss-up and showed up home in a tiny lil black dress, sans coat. Not good. The ulterior motive for hitting the pubs was to somehow track down my beloved red winter coat.

We had a clue: I found a mysterious cloak room ticket in my bag from a bar that I did not remember visiting. However, after bringing this up I was told that we had in fact spent the majority of the night in this particular dodgy joint. Clearly, I had drank even more than I had realised. It was truly a miracle I was still alive.

Back to Christmas Day. We made plans to hit a hideous bar called Las Palmas and started the night with salmiakki vodka shots. Back on the horse, hey? The novelty value of Las Palmas wore of even quicker than I expected and we continued onwards on our mission as soon as Poof Jesus and Candy Mama showed up.

On route to the meat counter also known as Doris, we managed to locate my beloved jacket from Onnela, just as the mysterious cloak room ticked had hinted and we had our first (and last) win of the night.

The theme of the night was 'nothing has changed'. See, the four of us have been hitting the piss for the past 15 years and therefore all equally suffer from a major age crisis. However it was somewhat of a relief to realise that nothing really had changed that much.

Doris was even worse than I remembered.

It was the worst I had seen. Poof Jesus had to hold all of us three chicks under his arms yet still there were hands trying to crab us every which way he was not looking. Every time we hit the dance floor, there were drunken idiots everywhere attempting to hump our legs or grab our arses.

The three of us (me, Poof Jesus and Candy Mama) were vicariously living through Mira Bell, as she was the only single in our merry crew. We were trying pick the best meat for her, ever if she did not agree with our opinions. At least it kept us entertained.

At the end of the night, we were leaning against the bar counter, off our tits and pointing and laughing at the heavily intoxicated fellow piss-heads around us still trying to pick up anything that moved... or actually, I don't think they cared that much anymore. It was more like they were willing to pick up anything they were able to carry home with them.

Then Poof Jesus directed our attention towards the dance floor to announce that Mira Bell had successfully picked up.

Clearly, nothing had changed.