The Only Was Essex
A Tuesday after a Bank Holiday always feels a little gloopy. A bit like after you've slept with someone you shouldn't. In the old days, when i was of course a lager swilling lad, these would be termed, 'a chewer'. As defined by the fact you would rather chew you're own arm off than wake her up with it wrapped around her.
Not that of course i was in my prime back then. I would have been termed a male chewer. 16 stone of Stella, Kronenbourg & Kebab. Smelling of 'Farenheit' and Marlboro Lights with an ever so vague smell of piss from my suit trousers. Oh yes girls, i was the man. I had the moves. Granted, the moves of a drunken twat, but i thought i rocked. I would have been lucky to have pulled a chewer. The only thing i tended to pull was another ring on a can of Stella
And anyway, I'd like to get the record straight. I like Ugly women. We are all Gods creatures and everyone is equal and beauty is only skin deep and all that. Besides I've found they tend to go 'the distance' more, if you know what i mean. That's just Wrong Evans.
After a day skirting around doing what i had to do and 'researching' social media channels and opportunities for business, in between bouts of what can only be termed 'avoidance techniques'. I departed early as i forgot i had a prior engagement that evening for a charity dinner for help the Heroes in Chigwell, Essex.
Try as i might to get out of it, i simply had to go. i was supporting a mate, and a last minute call off just wasn't an option. I did run through the excuses in my mind though for around 3......no 4 hours. Shamefully considering, 'My Nan's ill' card (so sorry Nan and you God) forgetting the fact she is being well looked after 230 miles away. It was a low blow my mind was trying to pull. Then i obviously thought of the 'i'm ill' card. Almost willing myself to believe i was ill, so that i wouldn't feel so guilty lying. It's hard to change 30 years of exceptionally well honed dishonesty i tell you.
Finally after putting myself through unneccesary torture i went. I knew it was going to be pretty bad and dull but i drove the 2 and 1/2 hours round the north Circular from Twickenham to Essex and arrived at The Prince Regent Hotel, Chigwell dead on 7.30pm.
On arrival i found it reasonably ironic the only thing 'regal' about the hotel was the brand of fags being smoked outside by a gaggle of massively fake tanned overweight Essex sluts. I immediately felt at home. It was like Llanelli but without the Asda. My kind of town.
We were inside the 'Prince Albert Suite'. This made me nervous, half expecting naked waiters with silver cock rings trying to offer me Soup. Thankfully this didn't happen.
All i can say, it was like a sort of 2 star wedding reception. The carpet was like a bad trip from the 70's, the table decorations were knives and forks, the napkins were paper (obviously) the food exceptionally questionable though amazingly the chicken was not so over cooked it was like eating a gonad.
There were 120 people there and the women were incredible. It was sort of like My Fat Gypsy Wedding meets The Only Way is Essex meets Cocoon. 60 year old women in lilac and peach mini dresses, massive stilettos, hair bigger than Kent, spray tans that were more orange than the man from Del Monte. Amazing.
I was seated on a table with people i didn't know, next to a 60 year old guy in a suit who introduced himself as 'Trevor Jones, though that will mean fuck all to you'. He gave me 2 business cards and was evidently in the security business.
What followed was remarkable. He talked non stop for around 20 minutes until the main course was finished. In that time i learnt, he used to be in the army, doing 4 tours, was a sniper and killed people, was in Northern Ireland, saw 22 people die, got kicked out of the army for drinking too much, then he started a security company, his accountant stole £104,000 from him in 2004, his wife left him and he supported Ipswich Town. Though it was unclear if that was the reason she left him. Maybe she was Norwich?
I think the only words i said to him in that time were, 'pass me the butter'. After the main course he promptly got up, put his coat on, said 'i'm away'. and promptly fucked off into the night. Stunning. I had to get the butter for myself.
The rest of the night ticked on with the pace of the woman who completed the marathon in 16 days. There was a singer, i think he came 4th on 'Chigwell's Got Talent'. I bought some raffle tickets, though 12 of the items on the list was booze and I'm not sure i wanted to win a 'facial' at Rios Spa and Massage. So i paid my dues, thanked everyone and left. Stuffing £30 into the pot for the cause.
I think £8k was raised on the night for a great Charity (aren't they all of course) and i drove back to South West London chuckling at my Essex adventure. I liked it. It's definately got character and soul, which was more than can be said of the menu.
I got home at midnight and thought to myself in order to be fresh for work in the morning and give myself a good chance of actually ticking things off the ever mounting list i should sleep and get some rest.
At 4am i stumbled up to bed. I'd just discovered a new website with 9,800 pages. Oof
xx
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