So, we’ve been on a bit of a break – partying so hard in Ibiza the idea of using a keyboard to update C&C was literally not an option. So, picking up where we left off: Brighton Pride.
So there I am, sitting in the security office of TK-MAXX – while my friend, who’s been taken in for ‘shop-lifting’ sits there, off his face, combing his hair with a chewed up wooden spoon while licking his eyebrow. They’re telling him off for allegedly stealing a pair of £6 socks – who knew Brighton Pride would start with Brighton shame. The situation followed after a night where after a few drinks and copious amounts of ketamine, we broke into SeaLife and ran around looking for sharks and pirhannas. AS IF we’d got that high, I thought I could go an find Nemo. So when we arrived at crime number two, I was stunned to say the least.
Sitting in front of the two security guards, my friend decides that it’s an appropriate time to pass me the drugs he was harbouring in his pocket. He side passes me 57 grams of God knows what and few other bits and pieces. Obviously I’m shaking – drop them all over the floor and scramble to pick them up, like Frank Gallagher in a free-for-all. At which point, my friend bursts into tears, claiming that he recently lost his mum. AS IF – I heard the bitch speaking to his mum that morning. Although I couldn’t deny it was a good diversion tac-tic. They agree to let him go if he has I.D. – so I dash out to get his ID from the car (in my own k-hole) while he’s crying, tripping and making out with a spoon. Eventually he’s let out and we laugh about the whole thing (sort of).
At the park, we shacked out hard to the Freemasons in the Wild Fruit tent, and after getting rejected from the VIP area (which FYI looked totes shit anyway), we got even higher on the fun fair rides. A spliff tipped us over the edge, and we hit a fit of giggles stumbling around with cheshire grins and pupils the size of Milk Buttons.
Then, horror of horrors – we were hit by a bus. Not literally, but a metaphorical bus. There we were, laughing – and who walks by? The one that got away… (I haven’t actually told this story before, but will be posted some point soon). What did I do? Speak to him with saucer-sized pupils and convulsing with laughter? No, no hunty. So I’d wait til I was in a fit state.
After the park, we made our way back to our ‘hotel’ – and by hotel, I mean the mattress we had in the back of my mates van, to freshen up – and by freshen up, I mean wipe our selves with baby wipes and re-apply the fake tan. We then moved on to our mates hotel before picking up our VIP wrist bands and hitting Audio. And after accidentally sniffing a gargantuous mountain of MDMA, my eyes were streaming like a virgin being raped by Black Beauty. After twenty minutes of agonising pain, what followed was a half hour of unstoppable laughter reflecting on our past fashion faux pas. Mine included a mis-matching playboy bunny outfit while his included flip-flops in Fire. A bit like when you see guys in the sauna with them on and you just think – Bitch, is way too prepared for this shit…
So if you’re man enough to bare the vile taste in your throat and the constant nose-blowing, I’d totally recommend it.
We also discussed the state of our skin after days and days on drugs. Withered, pruney and ratchett (new word). Ratchett comes from Old Mother Rattchet that worked in a children’s home. She was vile, bitter and cruel to all of them; when something is described as ratchett it means decrepit, dreggy, nasty. For example; “I’d been on drugs all night, so when my rattchet hand was wrapped around his dick – it was like a hand-job from the Inca Mummy Princess”. And speaking of ratchett, who was that ratchett bitch following us around, slipping in and out of a G sleep? Ratchett.
We then had an issue. The car had to be moved – we were approaching the 25 hour parking limit and were faced with a £25 ticket. £25 of our ‘hard earned’ money was going to them for a 4×7 foot bit of tarmac. Thieving scumbags. Don’t think we were giving up easily – on the third crime of the weekend – we bumpered the Mercedes leaving in front of us, and snuck behind them like a school kid thats spent all their Oyster card money on weed; broke, desperate and resourceful. Okay, we weren’t exactly the first two (at all), but hey, *that’s how you do it bitch.
Moving on to the next club was like hell. Emotional Man-Crush torment. So many guys I was seriously hot for in one club. So naturally, I retreated into my shell like a agoraphobic turtle and hit behind my diabolically dishevelled aviators. We dodged the Grindr chats and booty popped with the ratchett skanks stumbling over the dance floor. Salontro’ing down to the next club – I was totally working my baseball/basketball/rude boy/sket chic look. Jumping the queue (naturally) we did a little shimmy, and flirting shamelessly with a certain hottie (or seven). When my legs finally gave up – we called it a night, even though it was well into morning. I crashed out in a pool of my own sweat, which is definitely less pleasant than waking up in a certain other wet patch.
Although there was no action, I think the numerous counts of avoiding jail time were eventful enough. Breaking and entering, petty theft, illegal parking, fine dodging, drug carrying – not to mention the emotional loops certain guys sent us through (God, that sounds so fucking Carrie Bradshaw). But, every Pride weekend teaches a valuable lesson:
They say that crime doesn’t pay, but they also say that you can’t put a price on memories. So I guess, in some cases – “Crime buys memories”.