Yeah ok, it's been nearly a year since my last blog entry. I do think of things to write about, but I tend to do most of my ranting on Facebook as it offers quick relief. But after some pestering by friends, I'm starting this baby back up again. My first few posts will be about things that annoy me, cos I'm a cheerful soul. The first vexing blot in my life is Wind Street.
Let me just make something clear first. I don't condemn all who set foot on the street; I've done it before and I'll probably do it again. If you want to go, fine. I raise a few eyebrows when I say I'm off to Sin City to perv on angsty teenagers, each to their own. But to me it does seem like a meeting point for all of the biggest and loudest twats in South Wales. What prompted me to write this is I recently had the pleasure of fleetingly visiting the street again, and the first thing I saw was a young lady get unsteadily out of a taxi near the castle, stare triumphantly into the distance for a couple of seconds before vomiting on her shoes.
I'll start off by slating the typical women who descend upon the street. I cringe when I see young girls with orange/brown faces strutting about wearing what I can only assume are belts for skirts. It's not a jealousy thing, I just think it looks desperate, and not very nice in the slightest. I wonder how these girls can look at themselves in the mirror before setting out, take in their huge stuck on eyelashes, six layers of makeup, and barely-concealed vag-jay-jay and think "yup, I look awesome". I sometimes walk into bars thinking I've accidentally stumbled into an oompa-loompa sex party. Then as the evening wears on, they get steadily louder and more screechy, before inevitably collapsing face first onto the pavement. If drunken tears make an appearence they end up looking like a recently-dumped Joker. I've also been "started on" by these human sex dolls on a couple of occasions for accidentally knocking them as I make my way through the bar. This doesn't happen much, and I always immediately apologise, but I usually get some sort of unnecessary "watch where you're fucking going" comment thrown at me. Although if their excessive layers of lipgloss have glued their lips shut I tend to receive such an evil stare you'd swear I'd just eaten their first child. I also derive much amusement from the poses these types of girls pull for photos, usually adopting the "duck face" which I assume they think makes them look sexy instead of retarded.
Then you have the men. As you all know I've been in a relationship for over seven years and therefore have absolutely no interest in the advances of lagered up spackers who are under the illusion that they are God's gift to women. These are the type of guys who will stumble up to you, slur something you can't quite make out, before taking your response of "erm" as "please put me over your shoulder and carry me away from my friends". I also had one guy put his tongue in my ear. I liked him.
Then there's the bars themselves. There are a few I don't mind, but I once had the unpleasant experience of being in Ice, which is in my opionion the worst bar on the street. Packed to the rafters with chavs, pumping out crap music and boasting a very threatening atmosphere, I find it difficult to believe that people can actually have fun in that place. I also got charged five pounds sodding fifty pence for a double vodka and redbull in there once. The girl behind the bar also managed to knock my confidence in the process, slowly looking me up and down before saying "that's £5.50, mind". I felt like going back and ordering ten more just to make a point. Couple these sort of bars with bouncers on a power trip and you'll soon be wishing you were home with a cup of very strong tea. It doesn't help that, the majority of the time, what I seek in a night out is a few drinks and drunken banter. You can't have that in bars that are steadily trying to deafen you with Rihanna's latest hits. I don't like having to get an inch away from my friend's ear to shout "CAN WE LEAVE?" over the music. I also can't dance, and I don't mean that in a cutesy I-like-to-say-I-can't-dance-but-secretly-can way. I mean it in the way that I have absolutely no rhythm, no grace, and no real desire to dance to the sort of music coming out of the speakers. I'd much jump about to Feeder without caring about how much of an idiot I probably look.
Oh, and the bars are also slippery when wet, as I discovered when taking my younger sister out for her 18th birthday last year. We were quite a few drinks down in Idols before she went arse over tit on the dancefloor due to what was probably a pool of Stella. She was fine, bruised ankle, but in my drunken state the first thing that sprung to my mind as I watched my little sister sail through the air towards the sodden Idols floor was "Mam better not fucking blame me for this".
All that being said, it's probably not the worst place in the world, and there have been rare occasions where I've had fun on this street. But I really need to be in the right mood. And pissed. Very, very pissed.
