I'm Not a Girl, Not Quite a Moron

I am useless today. A complete waste of space. A weak link that lowers the gene pool standards by its mere existence.

I am hungover.

With not just any hangover, but a red wine hangover.

I don't normally drink red wine when I'm out on the piss. I drink white wine, or quadruple vodkas, like anyone who prefers not to wake up to find the Sahara Desert inhabiting their mouth and throat. Because this, among other catastrophic effects, is what happens to me when I drink red wine. I also get headaches that would floor an elephant. I am sick to my stomach for pretty much 12 hours after opening my gorgeously bloodshot eyes, and my brain does this awesome thing where it ceases to engage before I open my mouth. Or write an e-mail. Or climb the stairs. Or just about anything. I trip and stumble. I babble gibberish that I try to pass off as colloquial Souf Efrican. I attempt to string words together in a sentence and find all the indefinite articles are missing. And this is all AFTER the pissed effect has worn off.

The effects of red wine during the actual being pissed phase are even more alarming. I feel more high than pissed, for one thing. I get giddy and erratic. I flit all over the place like a hummingbird on speed. I talk at people, and I laugh manically. And I'm funny. Oh my sainted aunt, I am so funny. I could headline a comedy world tour after a few glasses. Chris Rock would be opening for me. (Appendix: I have never asked my friends the next day if I am really funny or just tragically pathetic. I fear they laugh either at me, or to disguise the real pain my funny self is causing them.)

Last night when I hit the Cellar Door with TheArtyOne, her brother PJ and a group assorted friends, I was already a few drinks down and red wine was just my stairway to heaven. The Cellar Door is a tiny converted public toilet (yes, you read that right!) that is now a jazz/live music bar in Covent Garden. You can squeeze about 60 people in there at a push. Trashed Tuesdays is open mic night, with musical theatre junkies, queens and old timers reliving their glory days on stage in front of the miniscule - but very appreciative - audience. Hosted by Champagne Charlie, an absolutely gorgeous gayface with an alluring voice and a penchant for quaffing champagne, the night is smooth, silky and increasingly madcap as CC's champagne quaffing picks up speed and the singers' inhibitions are lowered by the fine selection of wine and cocktails. It's a gem - if you're ever in London, make a point of stopping by.

But back to the red wine. I was cruising at 100 miles an hour, totally rocking the joint. Flirting with the gay singers. Telling complex and involved stories (which were so funny, obviously). Laughing like a hyena (some might say drain, but I feel that is just unkind). Proclaiming my deep-seated desire for superstardom - if there is a stage in the vicinity when I am mainlining red wine, heaven help the population of the bar. I was just drunk enough to announce my intent to do my Britney Spears impression, when the mic was switched off and the PA system turned on. I scolded Champagne Charlie, who gamely told me I could go first next time. I woke up this morning so grateful for his refusal that I could kiss him. Or not - I could get one of my hot male friends to do it for me.

I also woke up with the ghost of Britney shadowing my drunken stupor. Hit me baby, one more time, I thought, as the red wine sledgehammered me over the head.

Score: Lopz - 0, Red Wine - 1 big fat self-satisfied grin.

Salut!