Go Shorty. It's Your Birthday.

Saturday, 12 May 2012

Flying home from an immense trip to LA I rang in my veintisiete year (that's 27 for those of you who don't speaka the Spanish) approx 30,000 feet somewhere above the Atlantic Ocean. Or Greenland? Despite our bizarre bearings lovely Lereese aka GIRL.STOLE.VINTAGE was determined that I celebrate in style and on my return from the lav she surprised me with a card, glass of vino and muffin. Ledge. Unfortunately due to bloody time zones 'n' ting we didn't land until 4pm on my actual day of birth and so I only got a semi. Birthday that is. Ahem. However I wasn't about to let the moment the world was blessed with my presence be forgotten now was I. No. And as such a weekend bursting with besties, booze, bowler hats, boogieing, brapping, banter, baked goods and general buzzin-off-our-tits-ness followed.

Saturday was my night on the birthday lash with my Fulham gash. Yes I said gash. ‘The Gash’, namely Gemma, Lou, Amy and Nicola, are the girls who have known me since my days as a Fred West looking 6 year old, the girls who remained my friends throughout my wispy fringe, GAP tracksuit, sovereign ring, Delight FM shout out phase and the girls who are to blame for my intolerance of After Shock *shudder*. After downing a few too many rosé’s (not big) and zero grub (not clever) at mine we headed to the Grand Union in Brixton taking full advantage of their extensive and potent cocktail menu. FYI – Margarita’s are the devils juice. Before long we were 16 again with lampshades becoming hats, banter filled chat becoming weepy deep and meaningfuls and the old balding blokes who had been hovering around us all night soon becoming ‘a right laugh’. However just we were about to regress into proper teen territory with another round of shots and some head in the toilet action my smart phone informed me that a garage God had set up his decks at a venue close by. None other than DJ EZ folks. Quicker than you could say ‘blup’ my garage guns were loaded and I was out the door. Considerably overdressed in a vintage lace maxi skirt and Steve Madden heels combo I bubbled the night away to all my old skool faves delighted that I still knew each and every word to Sparks & Kie’s Fly Bi. Dun know.

Ding Ding! Round 2. Ignoring the whimpers emanating from my poor little liver on Sunday I headed East with my main man and gal dem in tow. Always buzzing on a Bank Holiday the Big Chill on Brick Lane was a no brainer and we managed to bag us the best seat in the house right beside the bar, DJ booth and smoking area. Result. My partners in piss-up crime bestowed upon me some gorge gifts including a studded Burberry cuff and giant box-o-cupcakes. Spoilt. And what of those who had neglected to present me with a birthday prize? Well they gave me the greatest gift of all, they gave me the gift of cider. Like Noah and his Ark the bottles came in two by two and so as you can imagine I was having the most amazing time. Until a black sambuca was produced. Pretty much descended into absolute chaos from that point. Falling off of sofas, cupcakes used as pornographic props, confessions of threesome faux pas, being made wing girl by my bestest boys and throwing some serious shapes to the most eclectic mix of tracks my lugholes have ever heard. I'm talking Hall & Oates, Biggie Smalls, Artful Dodger, Fleetwood Mac, Pitbull, The Specials and a bit of Bob Marley thrown in for good measure. Natch. As always time flies when you're having fun and somehow it was 1am. You what?! The night might have been over but we certainly weren't and so I rounded up my bro's from other Mo's and sista's from other Mister's and set sail for a dutty little Hackney house party. I would like to divulge more on the shitfaced shenanigans that occurred from here on out but, to be honest, if I did then I may have to kill you. What happens in Hackney stays in Hackney. You dig?

No surprise then that upon waking from my cider induced coma on Monday that I could no longer feel my face, my kidneys felt as if they'd gone 8 rounds with Tyson and my mouth tasted like a furry anus. Worth it. Thanks to all who made my 27th birthday weekender utterly immense. Not doing too bad for an old girl eh? 

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