Ginger People Can't Be Cool

The Saturday before last I went out to Mosh. It’s was the first time I’d been out to a straight club in ages, and although I love partying with the gays (I really do guys, you’re AWESOME!) I was extremely excited at the prospect of possibly maybe actually pulling. A straight person. With penis. A straight person without penis may cause a bit of a problem in the long run.

I had been invited by the lovely girls that live next door, and so, after a haircut, dye and applying the war paint, I popped round to theirs to have some pre-drinks. I should have known what kind of night it was going to be due to the fact that I found that the only alcohol I had in my flat was half a bottle of Jaegermeister, and when we left there was no more jaeger left.

At this point, the girls were pretty awol in the head, and I was feeling a bit like lil’ miss sober, but as it takes about 5 litres of alcohol to get me anywhere near tipsy this was nothing new. Only one thing for it. Drink more.

Emily disappeared almost as soon as we got into the club, while the rest of us went and propped up the bar. We spent a lot of time either drinking or looking for Emily, but by the time she had been located and we were able to dance, I was pretty wasted. I was dancing with this guy, who was obviously embarrassed about the scene his mate was making and grinning at me shyly. I was just starting to think “helloooo…” when Emily and co decide it is time for a fag. So out we all troop. I figured that it wasn’t a huge problem because there were plenty of other blokes out there that had potential, so never mind.

The others all trooped in before I did, as I’d gotten into this conversation with some bloke who was chatting me up but was faaar too young. When I eventually managed to dislodge him and shuffle back inside pretending to not be too drunk I realised that I had managed to lose everyone. So I searched floor by floor.

On the ground floor, as I was drunkenly surveying the dance floor I spotted the guy that I was dancing with earlier. I stood for what felt like 5 minutes, but was probably closer to 15, watching him and his mates, while I attempted to gather some drunken courage. I didn’t feel brave enough to go and actually TALK to him, so I had to get my number into his hands via some other method. A method that would have him at my feet.

So my drunken brain goes into action. I remembered that I have my business card in my bag. I can feel you wincing already. Yeah, I went there. I decided that the coolest thing for me to do, would be to stroll up to him, casually tap him on the shoulder, present him with my card whilst smiling seductively, and casually stroll off again.

That is NOT what happened. What actually happened was this - 

I stumble down the step on to the dance floor, stumble towards the poor guy, shoving dancers out of my way, tap him on the shoulder, hand him card whilst grimacing manically, turn around sharpish and practically sprint off the dance floor, try to place empty glass on shelf at the edge of the dance floor, MISS, try to step up off the dance floor, misjudge height of step and land flat on my face.

NOT. COOL.

The weird thing was that the next day I received a text… Bless him, despite everything he continued to text me, up until I reveal the fact that I am a ginge. Apparently the lighting in there did not reveal this on the night. LOL! Well, I figure he was good practice and a lesson well learned. Ginger people just aren’t cool, and they REALLY shouldn’t try to be. It doesn’t work. Ever