Wednesday, 22 August 2012

Newcastle ruined me.

I needed some inspiration, some new motivation a week doing no exercise in Leeds left me feeling groggy and shitty, as much as I try to deny it - exercise does actually make you feel better. However I didn't help myself any further though by heading from Leeds straight up to see Miss Newcastle (for those of you who are unaware of her celeb status I am of course talking about Shariat) for a wild Red Bull fuelled weekend. Having arrived at 9.30pm I was given half an hour to be ready and get on it, my life was already spiralling out of control because I had forgotten my lashes. Getting from leggings and a jumper to a skirt and a reasonable looking fro in half an hour is HARD. This was made even worse by the fact Shariat's room was on average 100 degrees. Once I had applied my makeup I pretty much  had to start all over again because I had sweated it off. However inspiration hit me - this was a work out. You try scuttling around a room filled with 4 other people's excessive amount of stuff for one weekend (of course my stuff was the most excessive), whilst trying to apply lashing of mascara - wish I just had my bloody lashes. Finally 10pm arrived and shockingly I nearly resembled ready. As health factors the night started so well - sugar free red-bull and vodka to hand (healthier option), Beyonce dancing (burning those cals), booting the snotty looking girls out of our booth with rapid hand gestures (burning those cals), running around Madam Coos trying to find everyone (burning those cals), after too many red bulls running around Madam Coos trying to find the toilets (burning those cals), attempting to get us a taxi home by jogging up and down the road (burning those cals). But I think you know what's coming. Getting home everyone declaring they are famished led to Shariat firing up 'just-eat'....sinking into a chicken burger (adding those cals straight back on). I regretted it as soon as I finished all of it. But at the time it was the best thing that had ever happened. Ever.

Feeling surprisingly fresh on Saturday morning we dragged our asses into Newc and helped our hangovers with helpings of Guiseppe and Italian food. Suitably watered and fed we hit the beach. The image of spritely youngsters geared up in sexy swimwear playing in the water is not an accurate summary of our beach trip. Still not quite back on form from the previous night's antics we trudged across the sand in jeans and found a sand bank to perch, far far away from the icey waters but close enough to see the Daniel Craig wannabes. A couple of hours after soaking up the healing sunshine we discussed the topic of the day -"what shall we have for dinner?" Why does life centre around food?! Deciding our hideous binge from the night before should not be repeated we attempted healthy dinner - our concerns were more that we knew we had to eat something if we wanted to make it out, but we almost wanted to be that smashed - so we settled with quiche. Classy.

Saturday night was in essence a repeat of Friday night - but even better and way more glam. This time I was allocated more than 30mins to get ready but of course I was still the last one dressed (too bad Kirstie wasn't there to make me look like I have time management). However 6 girls getting ready in one room - mission. We also soon realised we were all wearing black (probably to slim us down from the late night pizza and all day Italian). So looking like a girl band I was inevitably the odd one out opting from cream and black instead of just black - the Aretha of the group I self-labelled myself the lead singer. I was the Beyonce to my Destiny's Child. With this thought in mind I felt invincible. A litre of vodka later I was stumbling into a club and dutifully lead to the VIP section where yet more bottles of vodka of obvs red bull awaited. I could easily get used to this lifestyle - if only they knew the truth: graduated uni, jobless, living at home, home is in Leicester...the pity party goes on. No one was going to see the pity party tonight we were all on full form. Frequenting the smoking area so that we could actually breathe there were a whole host of Geordie hotties up for grabs, including Ricki the local celeb. The hotties soon became less hot when they opened their mouths and it was all, 'I own this club', 'I'm a footballer and I earn £36,000 a week', and even less hot when we realised that the men had more cleavage on show than we did. Having been told repeatedly I was 'a breath of fresh air' for not being stick thin and interested in their money (little did they know it was because I couldn't actually string a sentence) we decided to go head home...and of course get food. Bad Billie, bad bad bad bad.

So after a hideous 4 hour hungover sweaty drive home I needed to get back on the fitness horse. It has been salads and gymming since (I am aware it is only Wednesday) and the looming personal trainer session this evening is only kicking my arse into gear further. Lesson to be learnt: stop everyone from letting you eat when you drink...just go home, safely store you lashes away and go to sleep. NO MORE DRUNK FOOD.

Here is our girl brand - think we have a bright future ahead of us.

Fatty BB xxx

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