The look that we had gone for was all about effortless chic so we clearly started the prep days before. Effortless is apparently not so easy to achieve. It takes time.
T minus 2 days to lift off - the gluing of the eye lashes and the booking of appointments. Break for burgers and banter. It's exhausting work being pretty. Luckily we had all decided on paying someone to help the process along - winning!
So to those of you who didn't think it could be done. MAC made it happen. With just hours to go before our grand entrance (somewhere between Jodie Marsh and Amy Childs) we were looking almost respectable. I say almost as we'd only had our make-up expertly applied and there's nothing to be done when it comes to hiding the mischievous smirk across my lips and the evil glint in Bradders' eyes. As for J-dog, she's usually found with a combination of the two and propping up the bar. There's then the sudden role reversal half way through the night whereby the bar ends up holding J-dog vertical.
Dresses on and obligatory photo-shoot out of the way it was time to get the party started! BMW drop off and a trek through a field in heels. Passing the sheep and the pigs; it was party time. The festivities had kicked off earlier in the afternoon so we had decided to arrive somewhere between 'fashionably late' and 'just plain rude'.
With the burlesque dancers there from the get-go, there was already ample bosom on show. I felt that this gave me good cause to top up the bubbles already salsa dancing around my head. This process usually helps me when I'm bumping and grinding in fields, maxi-dressed to the maximum and part-taking in mid-afternoon revelry. It may have been this combination of drink and consequential events that led me to fall in love with Elvis and at the same time, be left questioning my sexuality. Awkward to say the least and not too dissimilar from the typical musings of a 1960's teen.
I'd seen more nipple tassels and vajazzles than the stockroom of the Essex Ann Summers. Bradders and I were probably enjoying it a little too much and J-dog was somewhere tending to Needy. Luckily it was at this point that a cheeky hip gyration from fake Elvis snapped us back to reality and restored us to our former heterosexual-selves. My sharking attempts had, up until this point, been distracted due to the femme fatales parading their retro glamour and non-existent underwear.
To add further food for thought to the most bizarre day to date in my sexual history calender, we added Boy George into the equation. A gay transvestite was enough to place the metaphorical cherry on top of my day. It's a good job that I didn't get to meet B.G. I think I may have tried it on with him after all the free drinks in VIP. Mother was disappointed that I didn't get to ask him if he remembered her attending a concert of his in 1982 though.
As previously mentioned, VIP was the place to be. We may or may not have blagged a few cheeky golden wristbands at some point during the haze of that infamous Sunday and then proceeded in taking full advantage of the situation. J-dog had obviously changed position throughout the duration of the afternoon. Commoners bar to VIP bar to being propped up by Needy. We all knew that he would one day come in useful.
As the day descended into further chaos and debauchery the sun began to set and my inner rock star made an appearance. Possibly after Jodie Marsh left, my inner rock chick wanted to smack her down with an air guitar. The Courtney Love in me decided against a cat fight with a tattooed bodybuilder and opted for wrestling with small children instead.
As the giant party poppers were deployed and the streamers lay scattered on the ground like numerous pairs of last nights knickers I made it my S.A.S. mission to grab as many of the shiny strips of foil as possible. A must as my bedroom wouldn't quite be the same without said foil strips festooning the window frame.
It was around this point that we thought it best to leave. Head out on a high whilst there was still the opportunity to return next year. There was also the fact that Needy was now struggling to prop up J-dog any longer. Bradders and I had made the executive decision to continue our night back in Oxford in a few well know establishments where it was acceptable to behave in accordance with the quantities of alcohol that we had consumed throughout the day. J-dog was to be put to bed (only to fall out of it again) with six bottles of water courtesy of The Crazy Bear.
So to the taxi rank. One stationary taxi. "Are you pre-booked?"
"No."
"Cool, can you take us to town?"
"No, I'm here to pick someone up."
Awesome. So glad we cleared that up.
J-dog wasn't too happy with all this confusion. She decided the best way to settle this would be to hoist her French Connection maxi-number around her waist, grind on the passenger door of the taxi wearing my finest M&S Bridget Jones' and compliment the driver on his 'sexy bald head'. She does have a way with words that girl, along with some very seductive circular hip movements.
We eventually found a taxi willing to accommodate the four of us and the six bottles of water. Despite J-dog's protests and desires to continue the party, we made a slight detour to her doorstep. Needy carried her and a number of the bottles of water to her door. Juggling the aforementioned items and a clutch bag he managed to let tipsy J-dog go for the slightest of seconds yet long enough for her to face plant into the door. The perfect end to the perfect night for the happy couple.
As for Bradders and I, further cocktails were needed after the standard sobriety that comes with tending to the lightweight of the group. Luckily we all survived the evening and are looking forward to next year's summer party. I'm not sure that The Crazy Bear feels the same though...
