After deciding that I needed to up my fashion game; I slipped into a printed t, vintage denim gilet, wet look leggings and stripper heels. Think Taylor Momsen slutty, with less exposed tampon string. Then we all went to WAR. And in the WARs, I was. As if walking in heels higher than I was, in a pitch black underground sweat box wasn’t chore enough, add to that hoards of overheated clubbers and some extremely lethal substances. And you’re pretty much fucked.

The night itself was great, but one helium balloon too many (along with cheap vodka and among other things) and I was well as truly losing this WAR. It started with a slip, trip and tumble on the stairs… (and yes, you have read something similar before), don’t get me wrong, I can totally strut in a pair of heels, I just need a little more practise getting completely wankered in them. And that’s another thing, heels I can do… Cocktail sticked platform tranny stilettos are another thing. Maybe it’s because I’m used to squishing my feet into women’s size 8 and wasn’t used to these roomy size 11 peep-toes. But yeah whatever, brucking down the stairs wasn’t the worst of it.

Perched in the balloon area, almost like a dolly prostitute, things began to get really hot. Like REALLY hot. I’ve sweat less after 9 pills in the chariots hot tub.
“Oh my god…” my words were an absolute slur. “I feel fuc-” my warning was lost in a heap of vomit. I obviously dont eat, so it was more like a squirt of vomit than a heap but either way, totally gross and so not glam. And I don’t even have a gag reflex, so I must’ve been wrecked. I literally put Emily Rose to shame. That thirteen year-old slut doesn’t party anywhere near as hard. I should just clarify this behaviour wasn’t some boorish “On it ’til we vomit” Geordie Shore style drinking binge, it was a complete accident.

But AS IF, the way people were screaming and running was like a King Kong movie. Obviously I feel bad for projectile vomiting all over my friends, but c’mon what is a friendship if you can’t hold a sister’s hair back?!
It was getting even hotter.
Oh my God, I had to get out of there.
I attempted to bolt out to save myself further embarrassment. Nope, wrong. I couldn’t even stand up. It was a WHOLE new meaning to Bambi on ice and after about my fifth attempt to stand up while slipping over in my own sick – “Oh snap!” – and no that wasn’t Ms. Thang clicking her fingers at my shameful state… It was my wrist.
So after throwing my back out at the Masked Ball and now dislocating my wrist in Shoreditch I’ve decided I better learn how to conduct myself in drag queen stilettos or next time it will probably be my neck. Thankfully, my friends didn’t have to hold my hair back, they just had to shove me into a cab and say “Sayonara” which was fine by me.

The point here isn’t to boast about what a hot mess I was, it’s to serve as a warning. Do you know how hard it is to do things solely with your secondary hand?! We can all laugh at how irrelevant and useless ambidextrous-ness(?) is, until we wanna masturbate, wipe our arse or hold a cosmo in each hand.
To top it off, the next day I punctured my knee on a sharp bit of metal. I say ‘punctured’ cos this wound was deeper than Pamela Anderson’s vadge. So no use of my good wrist or my right knee. I was already hand-job handicapped, and now no blow jobs either?! It was almost as if God was were speaking directly to me:
Let’s see how talented you are now HOMO! Sitting on his cloud singing Livvi Franc’s – Now I’m that bitch.

Or perhaps it was challenge. But dare I go to the outside world attempting to perform a sex act on one knee with one practically useless hand? Absolutely not. a) I’d looked retarded enough for one weekend and b) I’d lost enough dignity too.

Gilets Moral: Falling of your heel is fine, it happens to the best us… Falling off your pedestal is not, it’s careless… But whatever I remain by my statement that I was totally spiked. If only for comedy value and not date rape.