Old + drunk

At 3.15pm yesterday it was cold and crisp in Buenos Aires. The afternoon sun sliced through gaps between the higgeldy piggeldy buildings, blinding Lucy Robinson as she charged down Avenida Cabildo clutching bottles of champagne. She was not entirely sure why she was buying champagne to celebrate the transmission of a programme that revealed to the Channel 4-viewing universe that she was a complete psychopath, but it felt like an important moment and rarely has she needed an excuse to get on the champagne. (Especially when it is retailing at £5 a bottle.)

She charged back into the classroom at her college and forced her bewildered coursemates to toast a programme that they would (please God) never see. And thus began Lucy Robinson’s journey of discovery. The discovery, unfortunately, being that she absolutely cannot hold her booze any more.

Has anyone else got to thirty and discovered that they are completely shit at drinking? I can’t believe it’s happened to me! I am devastated! I used to be one of those girls who could drink grown men under the table without the slightest difficulty! Nowadays I would be lucky to outdrink a domestic cat.

Readers, let’s be absolutely clear: I have become a hopeless drinker. After two glasses of champagne yesterday I was so drunk that I found myself confiding in the college cleaning lady that I hadn’t shaved my legs for four weeks. I even rolled up my jeans to show her the deciduous forest that my right ankle has become.

A few hours later I was out having dinner and (too much) Malbec with my coursemates. It was about 10pm and I became dimly aware of the fact that I was behaving like a massive d*ck.  Not only was I yelling while everyone else was talking but I kept grabbing other peoples’ cameras and taking pictures of myself pulling gurn faces. Apparently I was chuckling away to myself like this was the funniest thing that anyone had ever done.

At 1am it is reported that I was trying to dirty dance with a gay man. Other allegations include

1) me going behind the bar and trying to walk off with a case of beer
2) me inadvertently punching some poor bloke in the face as I executed a ‘dance move’
3) me going off upstairs to an empty lounge to ‘reflect’
4) me possibly showing my tutor my deciduous ankles. I hope to God this is not true.

After 2.30am I have no memory whatsoever. The only clue I have to my movements is a half-written text message to one of my coursemates in my drafts box which reads “James. Drunk. cASHEW NUTS cASHEW NUTS!!!!”

When I woke up this morning, feeling like a badger had spent the night in my mouth, I tried to shrug it off.Oh well, I thought as I downed four Beroccas in a row, I’m sure everyone else is in a similar state. We just hit that booze hard!

Not so much, it turns out.

I met up with my coursemates today to eat many kilograms of steak and sausage at a winter asado and not one single one of them was suffering. They got straight back on the wine while I quivered in the corner looking and smelling like an old grey dishcloth. I couldn’t even cut my steak. I was wrecked. Everyone else sat round drinking coffee while I curled up in front of the barbeque and went to sleep on the floor next to a fat labrador.

Yours, still a nasty old wreck, watching VH1 in her pyjamas at 10.15pm on a Saturday night,

Wrinkly Robinson


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