Friday, 24 July 2009

In which I have been drunk for two days and suspect foul play

Apologies for any greater than usual levels of incoherence you might encounter here tonight. I appear to STILL be drunk. I have had no alcohol since last night, when I had two small glasses of wine. Something is wrong here.

If my friends weren't a respectable pair of solicitors with three children I would suspect them of spiking my drink last night, because I have been Drunk Drunk Drunk Staggering Incapable Inappropriate for the last 36 hours, which, even being something of an appalling lightweight (for reasons explained here), is a hell of a result for a bit of Shiraz.

Exhibit 1

I arrive home last night (at around 8, this was hardly a wild night of debauchery, even by Brussels standards) and collapse on the front step snickering hopelessly, slapping my cheeks ineffectually to try and restore some feeling to my numb head. Have to make CFO put the children to bed. Fall onto the sofa weeping and eating dry crackers and watched an hour of grave, doom laden, sensational Channel Five programming about HEADSHRINKING which I find endlessly, inexplicably hilarious. I spend the rest of the evening staring into space, eating chocolate buttons and signally failing to go to bed at an appropriate time.

Exhibit 2

I head off, late, panicky, ill-equipped, with a bag full of craft supplies, small stones and dinosaur posters, to Paris to renew Fingers passport and finally meet the other half of my brain, blog regular M. First stop (after walking painfully four times round the Place de la Madeleine looking for the wrong street whilst determined not to make like a tourist and ask): the British Consulate, where, to my horror, I am required to hand over my handbag to the security guard.

"Euh, il y a des sciseaux. Et, euh, désolée pour le reste" (*)

Then I watch in horror as, snapping on his rubber glove (in this case an entirely appropriate precaution) he handles several disintegrating leaves, a bag for picking up dog crap, a box of cheap crayons, several items of Bonne Maman packaging, some pieces of Kinder toy and a child's sock. (M, please confirm I am not exaggerating the contents of my handbag)

Exhibit 3

I go to WHSmiths and spend ten fruitless minutes looking for glue, apparently thinking I have been magically transported via some secret trapdoor to the Liverpool Street Branch (for future reference: they don't have Pritt Stick in Paris WH Smiths).

Then I go and sit on the steps in the Tuileries and fashion a rudimentary puppet out of creme caramel packets, sellotape and googly eyes brought expressly from Brussels for this purpose. My brain twin turns up without her puppet. I look ridiculous but I don't care as FINALLY, I have my hands on small Fimo models of dinosaurs.

Exhibit 4

My brain twin and I follow the ponies in the Tuileries round, sniffing their delicious pony smell, like demented freaks. We photograph a snakeheaded fairground ride and a giant bearded animatronic gorilla and I get in trouble from a vielle dame for having leaf mould on my arse. I get my foot stuck in two grates. Because I apparently believe M actually does share my actual brain I tell her terrible, disgusting things, appalling her into silence as we stomp around Paris acquiring cakes. Expressions used include: 'tumour donkey', 'cock stump', and 'unusually thick, spongy layer of skin'.

Exhibit 5

I read French Elle sex tips in wide eyed fascination on the train home whilst shedding crumbs from a gigantic macaroon all down my front, sharing a table with three Japanese tourists. When I go to the loo and look in the mirror, I realise my nose is powdered and sticky with icing, like in a scandalous paparazzi shot of some coked-up starlet.

Exhibit 6

I CHEER when the right tram turns up on my platform. Metaphorical winds whistle around the Gare du Midi as the commuters stare blankly at me. I pretend it was the teenage boys standing next to me, and turn and stare at them. I fear it is not convincing.

Exhibit 7

I am unable to assemble the cableage, wherewithal, or mental faculties to upload the priceless photography that should accompany this post. Instead it will, I hope, serve to illustrate Dr Capybara's incredibly bad tempered advice column tomorrow.

Note: Although Dr Capybara's casebook is already extremely full for this week, if you have a particular pressing, embarassing, or otherwise entertaining problem for him to deride, do put it in the comments.

(*) Er, I have scissors [Eds note: for puppet making purposes]. Sorry about .. the rest.


bonnie-ann black said...

jaywalker, whatever you're having -- i'd like some too! it's a long, long hour until i can go home and flop on my couch, drinking wine and watching Doctor Who... so please share.

M. said...

Yes, your bag is filthy, but not as filthy as your BRAIN.

Belgian Waffle readers, she made a disgusting moue while miming the act of squidging the afore mentioned thick layer of spongy skin. She almost sat down on a burly Australian's lap. AND she cackles like a demented witch, so much so I found myself shushing her in various posh establishments. FRENCH PEOPLE KNOW WHAT "COCK" MEANS, WAFFLE LADY. And no amount of miming the rubbing of iodine is going to make up for that.

No siree.

kathycastro said...

Oh, Mme Waffle, what a day!

1. Can you please reassure us that you were using the term "cock stump" only in relation to the poor Holy Tortoise forbear that you castrated? I hate to think how it might be used in any other way.

2. Does the fact that you are now in possession of fimo dinosaurs mean you actually did have the inflatable dino meeting on the Corridor of Ennui?

3. Would you please translate and share the French Elle sex tips with us as a post one day soon?

Much obliged.

Waffle said...

Bonnie-Ann: take mine. Surgically if necessary.

M: Huh. Did I mention the GLASS? No. I didn't. GLASS. GLASS GLASS GLASS all over vulnerable small children.

The City Road said...

Having been drunk much of the week myself I have nothing sober to add. I have, however, just noticed that the Belgium Picture of the Week is a costume made from processed meat products - something I failed to notice until you helpfully added it's new caption.

Due to this I either require 1) A long lie down in a darkened room or 2) A larger version of the image if possible.

Cheers *hic*

M / Mme J. - "miming the rubbing of iodine" - how exactly would this have diverted attention from shouting 'cock' in a public place. The world really needs to know.

M. said...

How indeed, City Road, how indeed.

Red Shoes said...

Damn it, why don't I live in Belgium or France or England or some appropriately located European country so as to go on wild escapades with Jaywalker and M.?? Whyyyyyyy?

Waffle said...

OK. Firstly. I would not SAY cock. I would say 'penis'. I am a nicely brought up academic's child. If anyone said cockstump first it was most certainly not me. I said 'penis stump'.

And yes, Kathy, I was talking about the tortoise.

And the rubbing of iodine was what I was DOING TO THE STUMP.

It was a totally legitimate veterinary practice.

M. said...

Nicely brought up? Squidge squidge squee squee.

The City Road said...

There will be some fabulous search terms in the blog stats after this.

And to make it worse, I'll just gratuitously add 'castration fantasy' to the mix.

That iodine has got to sting something rotten...

Waffle said...

Legitimate. Veterinary. Practice.

M. said...

You forgot to mention the giant golden snails we found engaging in flagrant "sexage".

Unknown said...

I have had a similar experience - with 3 small glasses of wine keeping me drunk for over 48 hours.....I was drinking lots of tea and fruit juice - this seemed to keep the drunk-ish effect, and not in a good way. I just felt out of it!
ps I love that modelling stuff fimo!

monk said...

I'm devastated. I was in the Tuileries today. Not once did I hear COCK or penis stump or anything else at all inappropriate in English. My head would have snapped round like an impala's if I had.

I'm weeping a little

Helen Brocklebank said...

I've been drunk for a week now, just to get through the childcare implications of being on holiday: your post sounds perfectly reasonable to me. What's more, your handbag is much more useful than mine when it comes to children, I happen to know, so when I see you next, lets swap. You can keep yr passport & credit cards & euros: give me the vast collection of kinder egg toys and multicolour biros.

estelle said...

ahahaha hilarity. i fear i too am hardly functioning at an acceptabl standard of sobriety these days. not that i am enabling or anything...

H said...

I'm just back from a festival. As a result, my handbag is full of plastic flowers, glitter, glowsticks, toilet roll, mud and some wet rizlas. No useful at all. Lacking leaf mulch though.

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