The year Mark Haddon’s novel “The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time” was published. The year Dirty Den made his comeback in EastEnders. And the year Jemini entered the Eurovision Song Contest with “Cry Baby.” The song which gained the worst placing ever for the United Kingdom. I personally quite like the song. It’s even on my iPod to this day.

It was also the year when I still considered myself to be dateable. I had been with my current boyfriend for almost six months and I was head over heels in love. I thought I was going to marry this man, Sam.

We first met when I was still a customer service manager for Budgens’ supermarket and he worked in the hairdressers next door. I would often walk past the salon, slyly looking through the window using only my peripheral vision. And more often than not, I would see him staring back at me. And then I would feel my heart flutter inside my chest.

SHEER CHEESE, I know, but I was still a hopeless romantic back then. Years of unsuccessful dating hadn’t yet made me bitter or cynical. 

One day, I finally plucked up the courage to ask him out. Well, I say I plucked up the courage. What actually happened was that I made my friend Tullene go inside the salon to hand him a piece of paper. On said piece of paper, I had written my phone number.

That night, I was pissed in the local pub. Quelle Surprise! And up popped a text. Yes, a text. Not a WhatsApp. It was 2003 remember. It was from the hairdresser of my dreams. I was so excited and almost hyperventilated. Tullene had to give me a little slap.

Before I knew it, I was in G-A-Y at the Astoria on a date! YES, The Astoria! Oh my god. How I miss that place. All through my late teens and right into my twenties, I would spend Thursday, Friday and Saturday nights in there, dancing the night away. I look back and I think, ‘how on earth did I afford to be out that much?’ And then I remember double vodkas were only £1.50 and you could get a blow job for a quid.

No, you youngsters reading, prostitutes were not that cheap back in 2003. A Blow Job was a delicious shot available in many gay venues. It may well still be in this day and age but my clubbing days are over, so I’m less informed of the shot menu of gay establishments.

For those who have never had a Blow Job, make one at home. Pour Amaretto in the base of a shot glass and top with coffee liqueur. Layer Irish Cream on top of that and then squirt on some whipped cream. Delicious! I might actually make one tonight now. It will certainly be the first blow job I’ve had in a while. Cue violins.

Anyway, I’ve digressed. This is meant to be a tale of being pissed on and not actually being PISSED.

After six months of sheer cheesy love and romance, I decided it was time we took a mini-break. So off we went down to my favourite place in the whole of the United Kingdom- West Wittering.

Driving along the A3, “Crazy in Love” by Beyoncé blaring from the speakers, windows down and the wind blowing through our hair. Yes, I still had hair back then. I hadn’t succumbed to the fate of my Dad’s gene pool quite yet. 

And out of nowhere, the wind lifted the baseball cap from my bonce and we saw it blowing away down the A3, back towards London. Very Bridget Jones-esque. 

Lying on the beach, sand between our toes and the sea glistening in the June sunshine, I looked across at my perfect boyfriend and held his hand. I had never felt so happy. I was a naïve 19-year-old and now, almost twenty years later, I can see it was never going to end happily. But hindsight is a wonderful tool.

To end the peace and romance of the moment, Sam suddenly screamed.

“OH MY GOD! It’s a Jellyfish!”

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And all of a sudden, I felt a large splat on my chest. The bastard had thrown it at me. Jumping up, I screamed.

“YOU IDIOT!”

I saw seaweed fall from my chest to the sand below. It had been a practical joke.

Within seconds, I had returned the joke by flinging seaweed at his face (yes, his face. No half measures for me, I go straight for the jugular!) I screamed,

“JELLYFISH!”

His camp scream and running, well, mincing actually off down the sand made it all worthwhile. A few minutes later, I felt another splat against my chest. Within a few seconds, I felt an intense stinging. As the culprit slipped from my chest, it was clear to see it was an ACTUAL Jellyfish this time.

“You Prick!” I bellowed as I began to go red and blotchy.

We went up to the shop, desperate to find some E45. But, not surprisingly, the beach shop didn’t stock it as part of their product range.

“I could piss on you”, Sam suggested.

“Now is not the time or place to begin acting out your sexual fantasies!” I retorted.

He reassured me that urine is apparently a good ointment to deal with a Jellyfish sting. And as this was 2003, I didn’t have the luxury of Google on my Nokia 3310 to support his claims. 

Desperate, red, itchy and stinging, I threw myself to the floor, well hidden behind my car and Sam whapped his cock out. Before I knew it, my chest was being used as a urinal.

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