Tag Archives: Blondie

And THIS is why Ritzi doesn’t do internet dating any more

Posted on June 3, 2013 | Leave a comment

Remember last year, I was all enthused about men again, for all of ten seconds, and Blondie set me up on the oh-so-classy dating website ‘mysinglefriend.com’? I went on some shockers of first dates, from mind numbingly dull to… oh no, wait, they were ALL mind numbingly dull. However, one day last November, I happened to log in to find a message that was not so much dull as HORRIFYING.

First, lemme give you a bit of backstory here. Last summer – the summer when I discovered my new addiction to the gym and so got so skinny I could fit into my favourite Anglomania pencil skirt again – I happened to help a friend/colleague out one day as she had a huge meeting going on and no minions around to fetch coffee and the like. Being the queen of caffeine, I stepped in with a couple of pots of the strong stuff and saved the day, and unwittingly caught the eye of a big shot producer whose path I had not crossed before.

Fastforward to November, and who should send me a message on MYSINGLEFRIEND.COM but the big shot producer???

Mortifying doesn’t quite cover it.

I staggered into the office in a whirlwind of despair,  demanding of my friend (the fool who couldn’t make her own bloody coffee for her own bloody meeting) exactly what I was supposed to do. She found it hilarious. I did not.

Together we composed a polite, but clear rebuttal, and I hit send and crossed all appendages that I would hear nothing more of it.

Oh my dears, perhaps this is the time to break it to the world at large that crossing fingers and toes really doesn’t make a blind bit of difference to the world, and one should really keep appendages un-crossed in these situations, since they may be needed for running away and reaching for wine.

His reply was equally as horrendous. OF COURSE he didn’t want to date me, I was soooooo out of his league after all (his words, not mine. Remember this man had only seen me on a particularly good outfit day) but he just wanted to bask in my presence and perhaps buy me a glass (read: bottle) of wine in a swanky exclusive members club and discuss my career.

OH. DEAR. LORD.

That was the moment I decided to stop paying my subscription and promptly disappear, never to be seen or heard of on mysinglefriend.com ever again.

And that was the end of that.

Or at least it would have been, if I didn’t work in the bloody theatre industry, where everybody knows your name (it’s like a sequinned version of Cheers) and so, dolled up to the nines at the Olivier Awards not so long ago, who do I turn around and almost soak head to toe in champagne? Yes, that’s right.

He emailed me, and he added me on Linkedin. Bloody Linkedin – why am I even on that??? Goddamn my amazing ability to network like a motherbitch.

As of yet, I’ve ignored both. Which is terribly unprofessional but what can I do? This man is twice my age, and not in a George Clooney kind of way. And I do not want to date him, nor do I want to ‘discuss my career’ with him. Ew.

And THAT, my friends, is why dating websites are the work of Lucifer.

Regards,

RitziCx

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Hen Weekends… for cryin out loud

Posted on February 4, 2013 | Leave a comment

I must say that thus far in life, I have been incredibly lucky to have managed to evade the hideousness that is the ‘hen do’. Yes, as you know most of my campadres are tragically single, just like me, so while I’ve plenty of experience with break up rituals, rebound relationships and regrettable one night stands, I’ve managed to make it to the ripe old age of (insert age here) without being subjected to L-plates, penis straws and low rent strippergrams.

And then bloody Bridget had to go and get engaged, didn’t she?

I’d factored in budget for rather a lot of financial black holes this year. Lil Red had a pesky milestone birthday in January, the Rents have an annoying milestone anniversary in June, and Ma Cortez is turning… well… oldish… in September. It’s a milestone anyway. I won’t say which one. Bridget’s wedding is wedged somewhere in the midst of all these bloody irritating events, and while I’d carefully set aside a few hundred quids for the outfit, the hotel, and the gift (a bouncy castle – standard), I completely neglected to consider the hen do.

What a fucking fool.

How elaborate are these things these days? Seriously, if I ever walk down the aisle (read, run away to Gretna Green one weekend) I fully intend to skip this crap. It’s exhausting and pointless, because let’s face it, she’s going to remember less than half of it.

Before you write me off as a bitter old maid, let me paint you a little picture. Bridget’s maid of honour is a young mother of two from the West Country. Her old school chums all still live in said West Country town, with their husbands and their sensible houses and their sticky children. Here is a meeting of two worlds – and the fact that the first suggestion of location was ‘Bristol because it’s half way between the two and £10 return on the MEGABUS’ didn’t exactly fill me with confidence.

Package hen weekends have been discussed. Are y’all aware of these? These are carefully crafted overpriced weekends of chain restaurants, vodka shots and ‘top night clubs’. If this sounds like your idea of an actual hell dimension, raise your hand.

Thankfully, Blondie intervened at this point (all I’d managed to do so far was declare I was not getting on a Megabus for love nor money) and suggested the more favourable route of a big old house in the country. That’s what we’re musing on at the moment and goddamnit that is what we’re going to end up with or I’m booking that strippergram for myself and Blondie, safe at home in civilisation.

Surely I’m not the only woman in the world who finds this concept completely abhorrent? Does every blushing bride really dream of puking her guts up one last time before settling into the monotony of marriage? Really?

I feel I need to put this in writing, as a kind of disclaimer, just in case anyone ever does crack this cold hard shell with cupid’s ice pick, that should anyone ever feel the need to organise a hen do for me, they should avoid all aforementioned terrible ideas. Please don’t invite my cousins and my old school chums – my cousins are stuck up rich bitches and one of them bit me when she was three, and my old school chums are most likely lined up in consecutive ditches with needles in their arms. Please stick to the present day gaggle of gals, the only ones who really matter if we’re honest, and life long friends you know I actually like. Please don’t make me get the Megabus, and please don’t make me drink a cocktail through a plastic penis.

Now that’s settled, I’m off to scour the net for alternative rural mansions just in case the Bumpkin of Honour doesn’t book this one in time…

Yours in trepidation,

RitziCx

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Happy Fabruary!

Posted on February 1, 2013 | Leave a comment

Happy February! Or should I say… FABruary? Because damnit, it’s 8 30am and I’m already slightly tipsy.

After a month of peppermint tea, soda and lime and steamed vegetables, I am happy to report that Ritzi is rested, revitalised and ready to start the eleven month pickling process once more. This morning my coffee was two parts hazelnut baileys and one part caffeine. I can also have caffeine again (YAY!) in small (ish) doses, which has made me so happy I could dance.

Tonight, Blondie and I are going to fill our Big Joes with a bottle of red each, followed with a chaser of dairy milk (the 1kg variety). Tomorrow (after 4 hours in the gym, I’m not completely falling off the wagon) we will get ready with tequila cocktails before heading to Islington to watch Pout at the Devil, possibly the GREATEST worst 80′s tribute band of all time, with Irish, where we will down whisky and cokes and head bang to White Snake and Poison all night. On Sunday, when we emerge from our respective comas, we will cook up a storm (including dessert) and mainline series two of Downton on DVD, with (you guessed it) a bit more wine for good measure.

And on Monday morning, I will sweat all of this out in my boxing class, and finally be ready to face 2013 like a real human being.

Huzzah!

RitziCx

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Blitzi Abroad: Sun, Sea and Shame…

Posted on October 14, 2012 | 9 Comments

(For this story to make any kind of sense, you have to know that Blondie and I are on holiday in Turkey currently. It’s thirty degrees and we’re so tanned it would make you spit. Sorry.)

A lesson recently learned by Ms Blondie McFabulous:

Number one: Don’t leave Ritzi alone with men of ANY KIND when she’s had a drink. Even unattractive, slightly fat Essex ones.

I woke up this morning at 4am, wide eyed and completely sober. I got up, went to the loo, and was slightly confused to find that I had no underwear on. Considering I’m sharing a bed with Blondie, I thought that rather odd. I shuffled back to bed, and lay there for some time trying to piece together the previous evening, to no avail. Eventually, it was bugging me so much that I poked Blondie awake.

‘Blondie,’ I say. ‘I can’t remember getting home last night, what happened?’

‘You showed up four hours after I last saw you, without your bikini.’

…

Yes folks, Ritzi Cortez still has the ability to be an absolute twat when she’s had too much to drink. Then followed an hour or so of cringing apologies, when I discovered that I had not only come home completely naked (in a towel, thankfully. Though not my towel, so I’m not sure where that came from…) and out of my face, sans ipod, shoes, JK ROWLING BOOK and dignity, but I had then proceeded to drop said towel (which is when Blondie discovered I had lost my bikini) and pass out, spreadeagled. At some point I put my giant Ritzi t-shirt on. Apparently.

After discovering this, I did a bit of downstairs recon, and announced to Blondie that I didn’t exactly feel like I’d been buggered by anyone.

‘You walked through the door and told me you’d just shagged a fat Essex man.’ Blondie informed me. Oh. Alright then.

You might think the worst part of this story is done. That discovering you’ve potentially flashed your foo foo at small children while staggering back to the apartment you can’t even find when sober in the daylight so feck knows how you managed that out of your face in the dark, then stripped for your best friend and passed out legs akimbo, is probably the most mortifying experience that a single stupid person can have. You’re probably feeling a little bit sorry for me, because it sounds like poor Ritzi might have had her drink spiked and got date raped by an Essex builder, but in actual fact - don’t.

Because the Essex man in question only hunted me down the next day, gave me back a bag of ALL of my belongings (including ipod, JK book and my actual clothes) and sheepishly said he hoped I got home okay.

And then I walked into the Mediterranean and drowned myself.

I honest to god do not remember a single thing after 4pm yesterday afternoon. I went to the bar, Blondie went to Skype her Jewish boyfriend, and then 12 hours later I woke up. I don’t remember going to anyone’s appartment, losing my clothes, getting home to my own appartment, flashing Blondie… absolutely none of it. I’m actually quite relieved the truth of it hasn’t come crashing back to me at any point today. I think my brain has just decided it’s better to let me carry on in ignorance.

I’ve now decided I’m an absolute liability and the need for some kind of perfect steady boyfriend is greater than ever before. I simply cannot keep getting pissed out of my face and shagging randoms, especially not in places with pools and Oceans and rock formations I can fall off. I can’t die of stupidity before I’ve tracked down my one true love, that just won’t do.

And so, I shall live out the rest of this week in a series of cunning disguises and extra large sunglasses, running a mile in the opposite direction at the mere hint of an Essex drawl, and then I will go home and we will NEVER SPEAK OF THIS AGAIN. Got that? Good.

Yours most ashamedly,

Ritzi “I’m a tool” Cortez

x

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Sometimes it Pays to be Brazen

Posted on September 3, 2012 | 3 Comments

Blitzi Mews has become a sort of half way house for visiting waifs and strays of late. A few weeks back, Ma Cortez was in town for much theatre (seeing as no other fuckers were going, bloody Olympics) and for the bloody Olympics. Then Dawson’s Creek came to play, tagging a London stop off onto the end of a truly epic European family ‘vay-cay’. Lil Red crossed over with DC for a bit (which led to a rather messy night in a Covent Garden brasserie avec moi, Blondie and Eton Boy) and then this weekend we entertained Blondie’s sister. In short, our hostessing skills are second to none, and we are both completely knackered.

BUT, that’s so not the focus of this story.

Over the course of all these ‘visits’, it became necessary to sample the delights of South West London local restaurant culture, lest Blondie actually start crying in front of the fireplace waiting for her fairy godmother to come and save her. While DC and Lil Red were here, we discovered a pub which seemed completely perfect. Good wine list, tasty Mac and Cheese on the menu, damn fine waiter.

If I’m honest, it was mostly about the waiter.

Which is why, on Friday night, when Blondie and I were slightly tipsy on post work drinkies and musing on a dinner destination, our thoughts went immediately to the old faithful pub-that-does-food on the corner.

Turns out the food was not as good as we remembered (how hammered were we?) and the good wine had run out, but the waiter was still hot (priorities).

In actuality, Blondie’s food was so bad (well, she will order pigeon fer cryin out loud) that we had to complain to the nice waiter, and then refuse to pay, and then request that the service charge was removed from the bill because we didn’t want the nice (read: hawt) waiter to have to share it with the skag head kitchen staff who definitely would have spat in that free dessert they’d offered in exchange for the mouldy pigeon earlier.

By this point, we were a bit sloshed. A couple of bottles of white between us, after one or three double vodkas in the pub in town, meant that Blondie and I were feeling a little more brazen than usual, so when we forked over a tenner for the hot waiter’s tip, we decided to leave him a little note, which read something similar to this:

To the nice waiter man, buy yourself some dinner – just don’t have the pigeon, it’s nasty. Actually, don’t buy it here because you’ll get naff all for your money. Oh, and Ritzi would like you to call her, here’s her number. Xxx

Or something to that end (I’m sure Blondie, the author of said masterpiece, will correct me later and I can edit).

So the next morning, a little worse for wear, the girls and I found ourselves on a train enroute to Covent Garden (me to the gym, them to brunch at Bill’s – fatties) laughing heartily about the fact that we can clearly never go into the pub-that-does-food ever again.

Aside, of course, from the fact that a little after midnight I’d received a text from a number I did not know…

‘Hi Ritzi, loved the note. Hope you girls had a great evening? (apart from the pigeon) x’

I chose to omit that fact from the conversation until a later date. Some levels of girlish squealing should not be heard around the West End until after brunch.

RitziCx

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The Kids Are Alright. And Naked On The Couch.

Posted on August 24, 2012 | 1 Comment

When you find yourself chugging along quite happily in the barren wasteland of singledom, completely devoid of prospects and sick and tired of emotionless shagging for the sake of shagging, it’s reassuring to know that at least someone in the world is getting their kicks with a guy they actually like.

Case in point, Ms Blondie McFabulous. If you’ve been following her blog, you may have noticed that she’s conveniently wiped all traces of unfortunate encounters with amorous Aussies and dickhead Doctors from her little corner of the interweb, leaving just this one little post. She’s happy – it’s adorable and also rather sickening, especially when you live with it.

We yelled and screamed and whooped about it plenty at the time on twitter, but I’ve not actually taken a moment on the blog to celebrate the step onto this next particularly exciting rung of the ladder, so excuse me for a moment while I do so, and then I’ll get back to the story.

HURRAH! BLONDIE AND RITZI LIVE TOGETHER NOW! WE HAVE A COFFEE TABLE AND EVERY MUG CATH KIDSTON HAS EVER MADE AND MORE (EMPTY) BOTTLES OF WINE THAN YOU’VE EVER SEEN UNDER ONE ROOF!

Right, sorry, that’s done now. Oh, wait. Also there’s this:

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Home sweet home!

Anyway, speaking of our sweet home, yesterday I left work relatively early, in the grand scheme of life. I thought, heck I’ve got to be up early in the morning and I want time for at least 2 glasses of wine before I pass out for the evening, so why not leave before 7pm?

I know, sometimes I surprise myself with my lack of commitment to my job.

Knowing full well that Blondie had been picnicking with the PM all day (that’s ‘Perfect Match’ by the way, unless she’s feeling particularly barf-worthy, then it stands for ‘Prime Minister’ of her heart. Don’t even.) I sent a cautionary text at 6.30.

‘I’m coming hooooooome’ it warned, giving plenty of notice seeing as I had to actually leave the office, trudge across town to Charing Cross, get the train and go to the supermarket to pick up dinner. Basically a generous hour of warning.

When I get to the supermarket, I realise she hasn’t replied, so I drop her a line to see if she wants anything particular for dinner. No response. Clearly, she is dead.

I send another warning, for good measure.

‘I’m nearly home, if you’re having sex please cease and desist in the next 10 minutes.’

No response. Definitely dead.

So, I buy my healthy healthy dinner of root veg and greens, and toddle off home thinking I’ve done pretty much everything I possibly can to make my presence known. I am a damn good flatmate. Conscientious to a tee, ya might say. I get home, open the front door very loudly, stomp up the stairs and rustle my bags around as much as humanly possible at the door, and open the door to Blitzi Mews veeeeeeery slowly.

Then, I feel like a bit of a tit because the flat is silent. Until, however, I drag my bags of shopping into our stylish living room/dining room/kitchen and notice something is ever so slightly awry.

Oh yes, that would be Blondie McFab’s knickers on the floor. And… is that her skirt beside them? Oh, yep, bra too. And… is that guy’s undies? A casually discarded belt? A wrinkled pair of jeans?

I’m not entirely sure where their shirts ended up, but I can confirm they were not hidden beneath any of the flattened sofa cushions. The lid to the lube bottle I kindly gifted dear Blondie however, was.

Now, I’m sure you recall, Ritzi is a damn good flatmate. So, without further ado I left the living room and stomped particularly forcefully down the hall and into the bathroom.

Some muffled shuffling and a quick door slam later, I figured it was safe to emerge. Thankfully, the walls are rather thick in Blitzi Mews, so I did not here the actual conversation inside Blondie’s Boudoir, but I have since heard that it went a little bit like this;

B: ‘Oh crap! Ritzi’s home! Well, it’s fine, we’ll stay in here, she won’t mind as long as we’re quiet.’

PM: ‘Yeah… but all our clothes are in the living room.’

B: ‘SHIT!’

Back in the living room, the floor was suddenly clear of all offending items. I considered letting them get away with it, but then remembered… that’s not what I do. So I raised my voice above the canned laughter of Friends (if in doubt, always turn on the TV loud in these situations) and informed the promiscuous pair that I’d definitely already clocked their knickers and it was no use hiding.

Mere moments later, a sheepish Blondie emerges, while a red faced PM legs it into the shower and leaves her to deal with the fallout. I have to admit, I found it extremely difficult to avoid dissolving into a squiggly mess of giggle at the sheer mortification on her face.

‘So, will PM be joining us for dinner? Or has he already eaten?’

RitziCx

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Where Did Everyone Go?

Posted on July 19, 2012 | Leave a comment

This summer is shaping up to be a non-event, wouldn’t you say? I mean, there’s this big old sports day thang starting next week, but aside from an abundance of pink stickers on the underground and a bit more moaning about TFL than usual, you wouldn’t know it. The rain has persisted, to the point of ricockulousness. Seriously, I’m on the verge of emigrating on the NHS (they do that, right?). And to top it all off, I seem to have misplaced my friends.

Remember, Ritzi’s gaggle of gal pals (a term which often also includes EB and a few gays) are the best. If anyone out there thinks they have a better clique kicking about, I dares ya to challenge us – we’ll win and we’ll do it with a cocktail in hand. But of course, that only works when every one is AROUND. Most, it seems, are not.

Twinkle just left forever (well, not forever, but for a year, so she’s out). The Diva’s disappeared off the face of the earth with ‘family problems’. DC doesn’t get here til the second week of August (and WHAT a week of debauchery that will be – can’t wait for the sexual tension, how about you EB?). Irish had a teeny tiny mental breakdown and ran home for the summer to have sex with her ex and film a mini series. And Flora is still MIA – I still haven’t seen her since she discovered her tripod lover. I seriously am starting to think he’s murdered her and hidden her under the patio…

Bridget, to her credit, has been around. Talking about weddings and hen parties, admittedly, but around none the less. Blondie, though less available due to her little situation (read: short arse boyfriend), is here. But she’s not moving in to Castle Cortez til August. WTF is that about? And EB is back. Back, but very busy with social engagements every weekend of course, since he’s so damn popular – which means midweek hangovers. Always useful.

Summers in London are awesome because we make them awesome. We spend our weekends in beer gardens and parks, having picnics, wandering the streets from ice cream truck to ice cream truck and sampling every form of frozen coffee drink Clapham has to offer. Last summer was great, we did all that and more. I recall dancing to Stevie Nicks at Hyde Park Calling, in a tiny playsuit and stifling heat. This year they needed pack-a-macs. The summer before, we did all that AND we had a bunch of hot hippies to rub up against since Hair was in town and all. The summer before THAT, I believe I was dating TVboy… (Cough – what a dick).

This year, what have we got? An empty promise of disgruntled army men on every street corner and a bunch of sub-standard Jesuses*. And NO SUN.

So in short, sort it out 2012. Because I am here and I am raring to go. I want a repeat of last year’s unplanned late nights on the veranda at Somerset House. I want Sundays in the park, or sunbathing on the Common. I want spontaneous trips to Brighton (avoiding any passing almost famous musicians) and weekends in the West Country. I want to go to the Open Air Theatre and not take a poncho. I want to get my fucking beach body out before I get so depressed with Seasonal Affective Disorder that I comfort eat seven months of hard work away – I’m taking St Johns Wort daily to keep a smile on my face, I haven’t done that since I was a troubled teen for cryin’ out loud.

Hey, summer of fun? Come the fuck on dear. We’re all waiting for you!

Yours desperately,

RitziCx

*except blondie boy lion man Jesus. He can win and if he doesn’t, I’ll give him a job singing me to sleep (amongst other things)

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The End Of An Era… And A Dead Fish

Posted on July 18, 2012 | 2 Comments

I can’t believe I haven’t actually bothered to mention this yet, but Twinkle is moving out of Castle Cortez… in about two hours time!

After a whirlwind few weeks of general madness and confusion, the day is finally here, and as we sat on the couch last night, mocking wanna-be Jesuses (Jesues? Jesi?) and pondering just how we were going to get her suitcase closed, the reality finally set in.

And then her fucking fish died.

How’s that for symbolism? Two and a half years ago, Twinks and I moved in together, and bought a fish bowl. Then we bought some fish, and named them after characters from Cats… you know, because we’re ironically stagey, which is better than admitting that we’re actually stagey. That just won’t do.

Mister Mistoffelees and Mungojerrie lived a charmed life. They had the very best of fish flakes, got cleaned every other weekend (thank you Twinkle) and had a pump that cost more than my weekly shop, and after eighteen perfectly healthy months, Mister Mistoffelees pops his clogs the day before Twinkle’s due to set off for Lala-land.

Coincidence? I think not.

And so we come to the end of an era. No longer will my possessions me tidied away while I’m still using them, no longer will I be able to get away with shirking fish cleaning responsibilities, and no longer will my fridge be filled with protein shakes. It’s a bit bloody sad, is what it is.

But wait, what’s that over yonder? Is that a light at the end of the tunnel? You bet your bottom dollar is is! And how many Musical Theatre references can I actually squeeze into this blog post?

I can hereby officially announce (seeing as the whole world knows it anyway), that Ms Blondie McFabulous of Blondie McFabulous Does Life fame is moving into Castle Cortez NEXT MONTH. Oh good lord the fun times that we shall have – and the wine. Lots and lots of wine. The movie marathons, the Hallowe’en/Bonfire/Christmas/New Years/Thursday parties that shall play out in months to come, the complicated scrunchie system that will be concocted for communication when one of us is getting some… it is going to be epic.

So stay tuned my lovelies, for a great time of change is upon us, and it is going to be messy.

Now all we have to figure out is what to name the new fish…

RitziCx

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Girls Are Mental. Discuss.

Posted on February 28, 2012 | 4 Comments

I have never tried to hide the fact that I’m completely and utterly nuts – well, only from the men I’m sleeping with, and then it doesn’t usually take long for the crazy to come out – but it’s a well known fact that all women ARE.

They can deny it, they can play it cool, but I guarantee you, behind closed doors they have been known to inhale a pint of half baked Ben & Jerry’s in a blind panic, deep throat a Father’s Day Toberlone in a fit of depression and hide their phone in the fridge to refrain from texting first.

Case in point: on Friday night, I spent a very pleasant evening, followed by some very hot sex, with Almost Famous. Being AF, he continued to text the next day, and the next day, until it got to 7.30pm, and I’d told the girls all about it, and sent the last text (which was about cheesecake) and then he fell off the face of the earth.

Any normal human being might reason – he’s in a band, perhaps he’s playing a gig. Or, he’s teaching tomorrow, maybe he’s knuckling down with his lesson plan. But the average crazy woman, aka me, had surmised (by the end of dinner) that he’s either particularly overt to cheesecake OR the immediate text responses and general keenness have put him off, he doesn’t like me any more and he’s never going to call again.

Cue a 24 hour freak out, where everything possible had to be done to prevent MENTAL RITZI from revealing herself, for in reality all I wanted to do was send the following text:

‘WHY DON’T YOU LOVE ME? WHAT’S WRONG WITH CHEESECAKE? DO YOU THINK I’M A SLUT NOW BECAUSE I’M GOOD AT GIVING HEAD???’

But thankfully… I didn’t.

Thanks must be given to Irish, whose calm ethereal tones talked me off the ledge;

‘Calm the feck down, Ritzi. Keep a lid on the crazy.’

And Blondie, with albeit a slightly different approach;

‘GET A FUCKING GRIP WOMAN!!! DON’T MAKE ME COME THERE AND SLAP YOU ROUND THE FACE BECAUSE I WILL! I’M YOUR FRIEND AND I WILL!!!’

And multitudes of twitter tweeps who did a fine old job of stopping me becoming the dreaded ’2 texts in a row’ gal.

We shall say nothing for the advice of Ma Cortez, who started going on about how sometimes she sends texts that never get delivered…

That is not what a crazy lady needs to hear!

Anyway, I was doing so very well, made it all the way home, watched some True Blood (Vampire Porn does wonders for the soul) and ate some chocolate, made peace with the fact that I was destined to die alone with cats eating my face and then…

I got a text.

RitziCx

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Wanted : Iron Knickers

Posted on February 22, 2012 | 2 Comments

Almost Famous is playing a gig at a super cool haunt right round the corner from my house. On Friday.

He asked me to go and the only excuse I could come up with was ‘I’m supposed to be at the theatre so I’m not sure I’ll be able to…’ Feeble excuse, Ritzi. These cool bands are not even on until 11ish. As if any play is that long (there’s nothing directed by Trevor Nunn kicking about at the moment).

Should have said opera.

The Office Sluts Brigade (god I love them) say ‘GO GO GO!’ They said this after they saw his mugshot and I can’t blame them. He is HOT.

Twinkle says; ‘You better not shag him so loud I can hear it from my bedroom.’ Thanks Twinks, ever the pillar of moral support.

Blondie says; ‘Do not go alone, and do not shag him.’

The thing is, despite being a MAHOOSIVE hypocrite, Blondie has a point. I’ve never quite twigged before, but perhaps the real reason AF and I have so much chemistry in every other area except for face to face (well, clothed face to face anyway) is because every time we see each other, we get drunk, lose our inhibitions and bonk each other’s brains out.

Then we wave bye bye for six months or so, relationship reduced to texts that range from painfully horny to shamefully needy, depending on which one of us is drunk.

Not exactly healthy, is it?

Which brings me to the Iron Knickers. Blondie went on a ‘first date’ recently, which was actually a booty call, and dropped her kecks that very same evening. Flora, the silly but lovable bint, just did the same thing with the leading man from Twinkle’s show. Now, Blondie’s bloke is still interested, but apparently only in repeating said booty call with no strings attached, and Flora’s has dropped off the face of the earth.

For this line, we must credit Irish….

‘Where are your Iron Knickers girls?’

Of course men think we’re sluts who’re likely to shag anything and everything when we get naked on the first date… If we’re honest, they’re sort of right. And I am one of the worst for this – if I can go a bit Freud for a moment, I’d say it’s most likely because subconsciously I know that if I do it, they’ll lose interest, and then I don’t have to deal with the whole potential relationship thing. My subconscious is SUCH a cat lady.

So, with Irish’s stern words and Blondie’s ‘pot-kettle-black’ advice in my head, I’m going to try this new-fangled ‘not sleeping with Almost Famous’ thing. And see where we end up.

Unless, of course, I have more than 3 glasses of wine, then I cannot be held responsible. Blame the grape.

RitziCx

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