Saturday 24th November
Groan.
Is it possible to die of a hangover? The smallest movement is having violent repercussions. I’m like a mumma bird feeding her young. I’ve got to calm down. If my body was a temple, my temple would be a Threshers. Or a Bottle-O as they’re called over here.
If it wasn’t horrendous enough feeling so close to death when you’re sharing a room with four other people and no air con, it’s so much worse having to endure a nasty case of the beer-shits when you’re sharing a bathroom with fifty or so more. I was sat in a cubicle nearly an hour just now waiting for the room to empty so I could leg it without being associated with the smell. By the time I could leave, my legs were dead, I had pins and needles in my balls, and I needed to go again. I didn’t take my phone in with me either, so it was a double dose of misery. There’s only so much to read on the back of a bottle of bleach.
Nancy and Steve, also suffering, have suggested I join them to the beach where we can sleep through the vodka sweats together. Sounds like a better use of time provided I can control my guts. I gave the lump in the middle of Bev’s bed a prod and hoped it was her butt and asked her if she wanted to join us. No idea what time they got in. Or where they went for that matter. Her eye appeared between tufts of hair from beneath her sheet.
“Wha-?”
“St Kilda. We’re heading to the beach. You coming?”
She pouted, screwed up her eyes, and made a noise like a randy hippo.
“If you do come,” I added, chuckling, “go to the loo first this time.”
Last time we were at the beach in St. Kilda, Bev got caught short and ran into the water for an emergency wee. That would be grim enough, but she forgot to sit down and just tiddled where she stood.
“What are you, the Piss Police?” she mumbled, and rolled away. “Leave me alone.”
8pm
Fan-fucking-tastic. I’m so burnt. So sore. I dozed off in the sun. Now I’ve got a bright red back to accompany my bright white belly and I look like a flabby crab-stick.
Tagging along with a pair of over-enthusiastic love-birds, when you’re already feeling a bit of a third-wheel, is not good for your self-esteem. They’d laid out their towels just far enough away from me to make it clear they didn’t want to talk, and shared a single pair of headphones and each other’s tongues all afternoon. Rude. When I woke up an hour or so later they were gone. Ruder.
But tonight should cheer me up. We’ve caught wind of a club night on the outskirts of Melbourne that is promoting itself as, “The Biggest Party On The Southern Hemisphere”. It is going to be EPIC. Bev and Rachel started hair and make-up five hours ago, so with any luck they’ll be ready fairly soon. They’ve helped me put together an outfit that Rachel says makes me look ‘more fashionable than retarded’, and I’ve even done something with my hair which is the first time I’ve bothered since we got here.
It’s a shame to waste valuable drinking-time when you’ve made this much effort, so I’m heading over the road to Northern Nina’s gaff whilst the girls slap on their final touches. Who knows, maybe I’ll find the increasingly elusive Hamish over there? It’s been a couple of days. Eek! Tonight is gonna be awesome!
From: captainkevman@live.co.uk
To: 'My UK Contacts'
Subject: Bloody women.
Date: Sat 24 Nov - 21:55
Excuse me, but I need a rant.
I. Am. Fuming. I popped out for 20 minutes and practically downed that vodka, and I come back to find Bev and Rachel sprawled across their beds snoring the frikking roof down. What’s so unusual about that, you say? Any other night that would be normal behaviour, but they’ve been getting ready to go out with me tonight for OVER 5 HOURS and they fall asleep at the final hurdle! Not cool, girls. Not cool.
I’m totally going to get into trouble for saying this but Bev and Rachel are OFFICIALLY trying my patience. And before you say it, no, patience is NOT a virtue. Hurrying the eff up is a virtue. All they do is drink, sleep and shop – although, technically, 90% of their shopping is just touching things and saying ‘this is cute’. We’ve been in Melbourne ten days! Come on ladies, let’s sight-see the shit out of this place and move on! Go, go, go! It’s like they operate at a slower speed than other humans. If I hear “It’s better to arrive late than to arrive ugly” one more time I’m liable to point out that it doesn’t matter how many times you polish a turd. It STILL LOOKS LIKE A TURD!
Rachel likes to take her time getting ready because ‘having beauty on the inside don’t get you free drinks’, but all that preparation time, and for what? A ‘smoky eye’, two straps and a belt? Come on, light a fire under your arse and try harder. And Bev, just because you can get your clothes to do up, it doesn’t mean they fit! You’re sporting more camel toe than an ACTUAL CAMEL.
Damn, I know this email is bad but I can’t bite my tongue any longer. All those little irritating things add up when you’ve been sharing a room for so long. Like, why can’t they apply mascara without shutting their mouths? Why can’t one go to the toilet without the other, or without a follow-up performance review? Why do they need to use BOTH hands when using their phones hands-free? I used to love the lack of filter between their brains and their mouths, but now that it’s inescapable it just makes me want to scream. I’ve learnt more about ‘women’s issues’ this week than any boy wants or needs to know. Flemmy flow? Really!? Being woken up by someone singing, “I gotta go change my jam rag!” is just not on. Pass me the barf-bag and pipe down princess. Do all girls go out for pink champagne to celebrate their cycles synchronising, or is it just them?
I’ll shut up now. Do I press send on this email or delete it….? Ah, fuck it.
Kev x
[SENT VIA THE FRIENDLY BACKPACKER PUBLIC COMPUTER]
11pm
Wow. I’m going to get into so much trouble. Some things are best left unsaid, but I went and had a few drinks and said them anyway. Regretted it as soon as the email whooshed off. I’m all kinds of grumpy but that doesn’t mean I need to be rude. How am I supposed to keep my air of superiority if I’m as bad as them?! Ok, so the girls are sleeping through what was expected to be an outstanding evening, but it didn’t have to ruin mine. I could go on my own but I chickened out. Why is that? You’d think I would have been spurred on by Hamish leaving without saying goodbye. Oh yes, I didn’t tell you about that yet.
“Did you see Hamish off?” Northern Nina had asked when I got to her bar. “Say, who was the cute blond he left with?”
“Eh? Oh.” I was so lost for words I sounded like a Tellytubby.
Nina pulled a face that said, Fuck, he didn’t know, and hurried off to clean some glasses.
According to the girl I asked at hostel reception, Hamish checked out yesterday with Irish Karen and, from the description given, that other nameless gay I saw mincing about the hostel in his gay vests. Seems the wee Scottish f-f-fucker has come to terms with his sexuality after all. That blond was cute, and even the vicar’s son had noticed. Rumour is they bumped into each other in the toilets and hit it off straight away. Yeah, I bet they fucking did.
This means that even Hamish’s pancakes got more action than I ever did. I just got a peck on the cheek in a fire-escape. They got tossed in the kitchen.
