In my quest to be more discerning concerning potential lovers, drinking less and trying not to end up in potentially compromising situations again without my informed consent, last night the following happened:

(I succeeded on the first and last count, but failed miserably on the second- being instrumental in the effort to drink 3 magnums of Moet and a small bottle of (free) house champagne...)

A current promotion in a London nightclub promises groups of 6 people and more a free bottle of bubbly and some food if they take a table during January, and experiencing the devastating emptiness in the usual hotspots last Thursday, I can understand why- NOBODY is out and about at the moment... save the odd Hollyoaks hunk too shy to dance, and Alicia Duvall throwing her tits and hair at smarmy-looking 26-year old WBankers one of whom slipped her his tongue in between texting the girlfriend on his mobile.

Anyway, my girls and I were only a group of four, and in an effort to make up the numbers (we got turned down by two trash-but-fun Essex girls bulging with beer bellies the size of a 6-month gestation) we decided to pick up the rejects from the Chinawhite queue.

And like rejects they looked, indeed: Two had shaved heads, two wore trainers and one had on an extremely unflattering hoodie under his boring jacket. My friend knew one of them from a party in his home country, and they tagged along with us despite facing the stony expressions (and swiftly retreating backsides) of us other three girls.
One even stopped to piss in a doorway just off Piccadilly, which really took the bisquit.

Althought we encountered initial problems at the door based on their attire, the party started as soon as we entered the club- and Bald Boy bought his first bottle of Moet!

I loosened up somewhat and we kept clinking glasses and dancing away merrily until I decided to just recline on one of the white leather sofas to watch the action unfold. It is funny how a huge bottle of champagne just attracts girls like flies, and I pretended I had paid for it by my relaxed attitude and lorded it over the table, glass in hand and a Mona Lisa smile plastered across my face. Soon, that smile wasn't the only thing that was plastered, as Bald Boy came to sit next to me and put his head on my lap, tired from the tramps on the dancefloor... just like a dog returning to its owner after chasing rats in the field.

I was beginning to feel quite drunk as by that stage we had finished two bottles. A few more people joined in with the drinking I should add, but he and I definitely had the lion share of the bubbly within our ever-expanding group.

I began to massage his head and he purred, trying to turn his face towards mine in an attempt to kiss me, but I wouldn't let him. He smelt nice though, and I enjoyed the sensation of his strong Norwegian body next to mine.

He pulled me up to dance, and we really showed them. In reality, we probably looked like two drunk idiots bumping into people left, right and centre, but I felt like Baby in Dirty Dancing.

Most of my friends had left by then and I began to feel tired and drunk enough to want to call it a night, so we left the last Magnum to its fate and stumbled out into the street.

He followed me up to Piccadilly, and when he clambered into a cab behind me I told him he could drop me at my doorstep, but that I was definitely not inviting him in.
The closer we got to my house, the more insistant he became. "Hey, let me just crash on your sofa, please... Come on, can't I stay at yours? I promise to behave...".

All this went in one ear, out the other. Heard that, done that before, lost the T-shirt and my knickers and had to wash the sheets... So I was determined NOT to let him in.

It didn't help my mood that I was having to face out of the rolled-down window to avoid throwing up about a litre of champagne in the cab, and that the driver refused to change the radio from Magic FM (a station I hate with a passion not warranted by the crappy noise they call music, which is like cold coffee to my ears) to Passion FM.

Driving extra slowly to squeeze out an extra 3 quid on top of the usual cost for the journey, the cab driver finally got us to my house, but instead of waving me goodbye and returning to the West End, Bald Boy jumped out with me and started waving a credit card at the bewildered cabbie.

I pointed Baldie to a conveniently-located cashpoint and the driver towards Baldie sauntering off drunkenly clutching his credit card, and let myself into my house, glad of the painless escape.

As I let myself in the door, I fell over twice whilst trying to take off my boots, then ran to the loo to throw up about £150 worth of premier cru.

I managed to get myself to bed, turned my phone on silence and tried to go to sleep, spinning like a space rocket in freefall.

My doorbell rang, and I jumped up to get it before it woke my flatmate, but too late, she was at her door fresh out of a dream and looking confused. On my way to turn the doorbell off I fell over again and felt like a total mess.

I woke up this morning feeling rough as hell and couldn't keep anything down, stand up or think straight until 2pm.

I then discovered two missed calls from my friend at 3:23am, and a text telling me that Bald Boy had been mugged outside my door after his unsuccessful attempt to get in.

I was shocked. Not that I live in the safest area of London (are there any?), but that his bad judgement, my inability to assert myself sufficiently to hammer the message into his drunken head that he wasn't invited to spend the night at mine, and my refusal to open the door to him should land him in such a mess made me feel really guilty and bad for him.

Why he just let the taxi go after I disappeared without leaving my phone or flat number in a silly attempt to change my mind, I will never know.

But I guess he is a grown man and has to deal with the consequences of his actions whilst under the influence (after all I didn't ask him to buy the champagne, drink it, or follow me home). In any case, I prefer this to having to deal with mine.