Saturday 26th September

I got up at 8 this morning to watch a week-old rerun of Jonathan Ross' interview with Peter Andre. Was dying to see how Pete would deal with Ross' probes for the low down on his divorce from Jordan. Thankfully, he handled himself with class and decorum, unlike that floosie he was married to. This pleases me. (By the way, I'm painfully aware that if 'sad arse' were added to the Oxford English dictionary, my name would be right beside it).

So, I was gonna fill you in on Rome and further Ibiza antics but today, I'd like to discuss boyfriends, specifically why they suck. I'm usually opposed to dividing the sexes along enemy lines but today, I'm throwing in the towel. Why doesn't my man understand me?!

It's been ages since he's done anything romantic for me. In the early days of our courtship I was wooed with love letters, massages and meat. I'm not speaking euphemistically here- he actually brought a fillet steak along to one of my uni lectures. I think he'd intended on using it as a prop to proclaim his love for me. "Man needs meat, meat is passion, you are meat, I eat meat..." (I subsequently discovered the "best butcher in Dublin" from which he acquired the steak, was next door to his favourite watering hole).

Anyway, now that we live together, it's the occasional bunch of flowers and a pat on the backside when I've made the effort to wear matching underwear. On the way home from breakfast this morning, I decided to stop speaking to him until he rectifies the situation. He claimed to be completely ignorant of what was bothering me and didn't really seem to care whether I was talking to him or not. So I chucked a cup of green tea over a nearby bush (I have a girl's aim) and ran off, cursing his existence. I didn't realise there was a gardener trimming said bush from the other side who, whilst mopping his tea-stained brow, told the boyfriend I was high-maintenance.

So here I am, all alone on a Saturday afternoon, insulted by a gardener and likely to be charged with GBH. All because my boyfriend is a moron who is unable to anticipate my needs. High maintenance indeed. Humph.

Sunday 20th September

I'm back from my travels, a pathetic parody of the Ibiza holiday maker (the boho type that inhabits the north of the island I hasten to add, NOT the 'make mine a full English' cretin one encounters in Chav Antonio). My body has packed itself in and I'm ridden with alcohol bloat and a chronic dose of Post Session Depression.

Maladies aside, it was a memorable week of merriment, good company and eh, rain. Yup dear readers, the heavens opened and pissed on us royally for three full days. But did it hinder our debauchery, robust Paddies like ourselves? Never!

We danced with old men in pink turbans, swam naked with hippies, sampled the island's many herbal refreshments and found endless amusement sharing all during a candlelit game of 'I've Never' (the puerile pleasures of uni days never wane). 

A word of warning however, re game playing: couples charades should be avoided at all costs. Boys, 'Gulag Archipelago' is not a fair tradeoff for 'Jaws'.

More installments on our Ibiza shananigans to follow when I get back from tractor testing in Rome. That's if I make it back alive. Have never driven a tractor nor abroad for that matter. Could make for an interesting trip.

See you next week. Hopefully.

Friday 11th September

DOADR is logging off for a week. This former receptionist will be sunning her generously padded and exceptionally dimpled seat at her exclusive villa in Ibiza.

My bags are packed, the latest tractor reviews are up to date, and a glass of rose awaits me at my friend's gaff in Clapham. Lily has requested 'something neon' as a souvenir. I told her if I can bring my sanity back with me, I've done well.

Glowstick at the ready, Ibiza, let's be 'avin it!

8.25am

I'm going to Ibiza by the way.

Thursday 10th September

Ibiza, Ibiza, IBIZA!!!

Sunday 4th September

What a waste of a weekend. I had intended on being thoroughly productive- cleaning, grocery shopping, watering my basil plant, etc.

Instead, Saturday was spent on the sofa watching X Factor and a really bad 9/11 movie (I was unable to muster the strength to switch to a more hangover-friendly film).

My malaise was due to an excess of merriment the previous evening, which abruptly concluded when I threw up inside my Waitrose Made For Life bag on the bus home. Class act, me.

The thing is (and despite what you may be thinking, this is NOT a case of drinker’s denial), I didn’t consume a great deal of alcohol, well- no more than your average Friday night’s intake anyway. I didn’t mix my drinks; I imbibed on a full stomach; and it was after 8pm before I had my first swall (as we say back in Belfast). In short, I followed all the rules.

Lily thinks my lack of sobriety was due to recent weight loss and I’m happy enough to go along with it. This way, I can deny all culpability and I get to be skinny. Win-win.

Poor Lils, she’s a very reserved drunk. Come to think of it, I’ve only seen her truly legless once, which makes my own occasional drunken indiscretion all the more embarrassing. It’s somewhat lacking in decorum to have your hair held back for you by a mate, younger than your little sister, while you vomit your 26 year-old heart out (btw, is there an age where it’s unacceptable to be visibly drunk? If so, perhaps it’s time I had a word with my parents).

But still, every girl knows that when you sign up for female friendship, such messy jobs are written into the contract.

Some were not much impressed by the events of the evening. Never mind that I was well behaved at the party and didn’t offend anyone. Vomiting on a bus, it would seem, is akin to murder or prostitution. I’ve had the misfortune of being horribly drunk twice in the last four months and probably a total of five times over a two year period, yet you’d swear, I’m one step away from a stint in The Priory, the way some people act.

So, my dear readers, I can respond in one of two ways: I can hang up my party shoes, pour that bottle of 2001 Pouilly Fuisse I’ve been saving for a special occasion down the sink and sign up for AA classes OR; I can accept that sometimes, I will get drunk. I might fall over, talk rubbish, say something bordering on offensive and yes; I might just throw up when my body has had enough abuse. When this happens, as it has done in the past and no doubt will in the future, I will go easy on the sauce, take plenty of green tea and become a hermit, only to resurface a few months later and make a royal fool of myself all over again.

As old friend and new roomie Beth put it: “no one has gone through life without making a complete tit off themselves”. And that’s what I love about my oldest mates. There’s never any judgement because they’ve all been in the same situation. So you see, I’m happy to keep flying that tit flag. In fact, it’s imperative that I do so. It’s a charitable act, when you think about it. I am Everyman, making people feel less bad about their imperfections by my own ungodly behaviour. I’m so saintly, I should be canonised. Such goodness deserves a drink. Better make mine a double.