Day nine – grandeur and grime, the morning after a night at Belfast Castle and the Kremlin with its resident royalty queen
Waking up to a hangover which left me considering whether it was time to give up the Rioja and hang up my cocktail dress forever, I knew the day would be difficult. A former girl guide and air cadet however always comes ready. Having known we would be spending the night with one of my wilder friends in Belfast fair city; a girl with the uncanny ability to drink me under the table twice over, whose command of the English language leaves her the only person in living history who communicates at the same speed as myself; I had packed a grey three-quarter length sleeved sparkley dress for the morning after. The dress, originally from Oasis but bought from the Stock X-change in Market Harborough for £9, is so comfortable that I have been known to wrap it round a hot water bottle when in need of a cuddle in the absence of the boy. It is also just about short enough to detract attention from dark glitter filled eyes, grey tinged skin and mohito tainted breath.
Our night in Belfast was chaotic to say the least. Having begun the night at Belfast castle with its stunning views over the starlit city and its beautiful ancient grounds we ended the night retreating as fast as we could from the vomit scented maze of Europe’s largest gay club.
My designer dress, (I found out it was made by V V though I am still at a loss to who this might be) combined with a Russian style fur hat which I got from a charity shop back in May, (please note I am pretty sure it is fake but have no idea of knowing for sure) went down a storm in the Kremlin where a prominent bosom receives barely a glance. We had high hopes for the club giving its reputation for being a popular palace for Belfast’s gay community, (or people who are confused as my mother calls them), and providing they are respectful, heterosexual visitors alike. Sadly we were left sorely disappointed by the place and had we not began the night at the castle with a fabulous three course meal I would have felt my dress had been sadly wasted at such a place.
I had an open mind as we climbed the stairs to the cocktail bar away from the main dance floors and forced myself to ignore the unusual scent that greeted us. It was reasonably cheap to enter and having got free wine with our meal deal I was in no hurry to get more alcohol. Having waited over twenty minutes for the waiter to make a mojhito however my mouth did start to get a little dry.
After lounging by the bar, employed in some fascinating people watching; namely a transvestite with a giant red wig, well over six-foot who wore skin-tight flame red hot-pants which matched the wig; we made our way over to the dance floor. On the way to the cheesy tunes room, (when in Rome), I again smelt the unusual scent which my friend explained to me was dried vomit.
Hoping a stint on the dance floor would help me consign this revelation to the back of my mind we found us a space to boogie. Unfortunately with the dance floor depressingly empty one could not help but feel self-conscious. Although we made an effort to make the best of a bad situation, bopping away on the balcony and giggling with glee at the sight of a scrawny man stripping off his t-shirt whilst simultaneously simulating sex with his dance partner, the evening fell flat and the overwhelming scent saw us flee from the club before half one to a carriage driven by a wonderful man named Barney.
Thankfully on arrival back at the flat we were joined by my friends brother and his friend. They were two intelligent and rather attractive lads who were game for a giggle and determined to convince the boy to join in with a sing-song to Boyzone. The boy is famously snobbish about his music taste and I alone refer to him as a musical Nazi, so this spectacle alone made the three-hour journey extremely worthwhile. Our friend was as hospitable as only the Irish can be, and with many cups of tea, a spectacular fry and her brothers brilliant jokes, (including the absolutely classic, “what does a condom and your girlfriend have in common? They both spend more time in your wallet than at the end of your dick”) we were soon cured of our hangover and convinced that had the bus system in Ireland been more reliable we would have stayed on for another night on the tiles in search of less vomit scented abodes.