Monday night, an hour left of a three-day weekend and the perfect time to begin a post and consider tidying up my room. The weekend started off rather badly as my boss fled the office around 5-ish to collect his daughter from nursery. Under normal circumstances, I'd've left immediately but I had to sit there alone on a Friday night til 6.30pm to wait for a delivery that never came.
Saturday was a bit more interesting. I got a train from Victoria amid hellish bank holiday queues and arrived in Surrey where I cadged a lift from Luke to go up to East Anglia for a BBQ with friends. It was all rather pleasant; I tend to feel I haven't had a summer if I don't go to Ali and Vicky's yearly pissup. Time flew irritatingly quickly - in direct opposition to the slow crawl at work - and before long we were yelling out Blondie lyrics while I got blueberries thrown at me.
Luke threw up in the cab back.
The following day, Luke drove us back down to Surrey where I had an invite to my friend Danny's wedding to Neeta. I used to work with Danny at an inept examination board where we were temping several years ago and we'd kept in touch. As such, Danny is in a friends' group all of his own and I was the only person I knew there, barring the handful of chaps I'd met on his stag. Nonetheless, I was honoured to be invited, even if it was just for the evening do, so I was quite relaxed when Luke dropped me at the hotel and I sauntered into the reception with a hangover in blueberry-stained jeans lugging a huge rucksack on my back.
So imagine my surprise when I was confronted by the bride looking resplendent in a red sari and covered in jewels, her father holding onto her arm and surrounded by a small attractive Hindu entourage as they solemnly trudged towards a nearby hall.
'Uh, didn't you get married this morning?' I asked her, suddenly aware of how shit I looked and that I might be delaying her walking into her own wedding.
'No,' she said. 'It's now. And you're late.'
I closed my eyes and grimaced. I'd fucked up again, by choosing to read only the venue and time on the invitation and assuming I was there only for the end bit. I leant in for a hug but she yelled 'Don't touch my back!' so I waved at her forlornly and ran into the Gent's toilets where I frantically changed into a crap pair of trousers and a shirt. I didn't bring a suit, as I thought I was going to a reception, not an actual wedding. Thus my evening was complete; dressed like a Saturday night Chav on a night out at his local discotheque among immaculately well-turned out Indians and suited white people. I was too late to get a seat so I hung at the back looking like Security, where I recognised a couple of stag faces and nodded meekly. The chances of me pulling an Indian goddess had now violently diminished (not that they were that high to begin with).
I spent the next hour or so apologising to as many people as I could and trying to hide my stereotypical pint of lager (I wanted a gin and tonic, or something less white working-class, but decided that anything alcoholic would do), and ended up having an absolutely fantastic time. With no-one there who knew me, I was insulted a total of zero times, and found myself in the company of strangers who seemed to like my god-awful stories of woe.
The food was fantastic. I thoroughly recommend wedding curry, and it was interesting to be at a half-Indian, half-English wedding again. My last was Luke's wedding, the one where I was Best Man, and I was used to seeing spectacular women in saris. It was rather more baffling this time, as previously said Indians were Muslim so only the Brits were drinking. This time round the wedding was 50% Hindu, so I had to get accustomed to the frankly bizarre sight of Anglo-Indians facing American and Canadian Indians in a drinking competition. (It was a tie.)
Even more spectacularly, I got chatting to a cute Swiss girl who, dare I say it, seemed keen. There was also a striking blonde Polish lady there with the most spectacular body who also appeared to be single. (She did mention a boyfriend at one point but dismissed him just as quickly, a tactic I've heard before from women. It suggests that there's a certain someone in their lives but they could be relegated to a footnote if you're charming and delightful enough.)
Needless to say, I was very attracted to *Unpronounceable* and made a sterling effort not to stare at her overwhelmingly huge cleavage. I was also attracted to Swiss lady, and felt fairly sick to the pit of my stomach when she asked me if, like her, I was staying at the hotel.
'No,' I told her, 'I'm getting a cab home.'
Now here's where I'll get yelled at by any would-be commentators; I had arranged via email to share a cab with one of the groom's other guests. As luck would have it, he lives on the same road as me in West London, some 30-odd miles from the wedding venue. Now call me stupid, or cheap, or worse, but history has taught me that any Sure Thing always ends up with me crying and alone and masturbating furiously. Here were the facts: Definite cab home from Where-The-Hell-Am-I?, Surrey, versus potential fumblings with one of two ladies which was not guaranteed, plus possible hotel bill, plus socially awkward morning scenario, plus possible inability to raise the dead that is my penis, coupled with the fact that any lady would discover that I'm fatter than I look under my cheap Primark shirt.
I actually weighed all this up in my mind and decided that the cab was the safest option. It was a Win/ Win: zero humiliation, with my own bed at the end of it for me to cry alone in and masturbate furiously. I'm accustomed to no sex, you see.
Having said all that, there was a third lady I've yet to mention, a cute also-single guest who'd overheard my earlier cab discussion and asked if she could join in, opening up the delightful possibility of being invited in for coffee as I'd also picked up on possible keenness.
We left the hotel around 11.30pm after I said my goodbyes. Cab lady was busy gassing on the phone to a girlfriend, and when I made a playful comment about her not joining in with our conversation, she gave me a flirtatious scratch on my arm (twice). This was excellent. Something was definitely going to happen.
Then we approached West London and she mentioned that she actually lived in Manchester and was staying with friends. Something was now definitely not going to happen, as there are very few women in the history of their sex that will invite a complete stranger into a home that they don't live in. At least, not in my experience.
Thus, I found myself ten minutes away from my flat with a bloke called Chris and sudden desire to rip my head off with a can opener. I had met three lovely women I couldn't choose between who I slightly maybe potentially possibly could've done something with had I been one of those charming male slugs with a good line in schmoozing and who doesn't care where he puts his genitals and what the outcome is, providing they end up warm and wet.
I do worry about outcomes, plus I'm still of the opinion that I need women to say "I want to have sex with you" (which they generally don't), all of which meant I found myself spending my bank holiday Monday eating, and having a mammoth afternoon nap for three hours. I've regressed to the life of a fat baby, and quite frankly I deserve all the angry comments I'm about to receive.
I would be a lot more confident to dive into sex if I wasn't at my fattest right now. Perhaps I should allow this monumental night to spur me on to a fucking diet.