Get Some Cider Inside Her

Amazingly, I managed to get off the train at the right stop without either falling over or vomiting. The world was still slightly fuzzy but I could cope with that – in fact, my blurry vision acted to soften the drab greyness around Bristol Templemeads station so really it was an advantage. Bristol is for the most part a lovely city but, like all cities, it has its dull Seventies office buildings, of which there seemed to be a plethora around the train station. The Girls were slightly concerned when they found me slumped over their car but I assured them I was still up for shopping – after the disappointment of the previous day’s shop, not even double vision and the strong possibility that I might spontaneously and without warning vomit was going to prevent me from spending some money. It proved to be a wise decision as I didn’t collapse, walk into stationary or moving objects, or bring up the BLT bagel I had earlier consumed. Best of all, I left with armloads of carrier bags! Other than the boy that cycled past me and randomly shouted ‘bitch’ in my general direction, it was a wonderful day.


By 8pm the hangover had all but vanished and I was ready to drink again, which was a good thing as we were going to a party on a farm and I was anticipating there being copious amounts of cider – we were in Somerset after all. Indeed, we had been there mere minutes when a full cup of urine-coloured liquid was thrust in my face by an unshaven, ruddy-faced man in a plaid shirt. “Get that down yer!” he said with a thick West Country accent. Sipping my cider, I looked around at the motley crew assembled. It was like being at some sort of farmers convention, which was unsurprising given that the party was on a farm, hosted by a farmer who had invited most of the village locals, most of whom were in the agricultural industry. I was chatted up by one such charming local who must have thought I would impressed by the brand new, state-of-art tractor he had recently purchased. “Tha’ ere tra’or is the best money ‘n buy and I got meself one!” he enthused, throwing in a wink for good measure. He seemed perplexed when I didn’t immediately pounce pull him to me and passionately snog him. That chat-up line probably always works for him in the local pub. He later grabbed my me for a dance and proceeded to feel my bottom not once, but twice. “Sorry,” he said, not seeming sorry at all, “ but I’m single and from Somerset.” Oh, well Ok cider-drinking, tractor-driving Somerset yokel, that’s fine then, feel away. For a minute there I thought you were just a perve. Phew, I’m glad we got that cleared up. But then the band started playing a Wurzels song - it had been almost ten minutes since they had sung one and people were starting to get antsy, so presumably it was sing ‘I got a brand new combine harvester’ or be killed by an angry mob of cider-fuelled Somerset farmers. Casanova threw his arms up into the air, whooped loudly and completely forgot about me. The entire field was filled with the sound of dozens of yokels singing. “I got a brand new combine harvester and I’ll give you the key, oh I got a brand new combine harvester, won’t you come with me?” Worried he might use this to serenade me, I slipped away and poured myself some more cider. Getting drunk again was the only way to survive this night.