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Ms St Paddy’s Day

It’s the vodka premix edition; jelly shots in the kitchen; Gemma stumbling that body; got every Irishman wishing; dress already stained with some rum; she’s like so what I’m drunk; I’ts freakin’ St Paddy’s Day; I’m about to have me some fun

Gemma embraces her 1/8th Irish heritage for the biggest day on the Paddy calender. It’s time to dress up and take a big hit from the craic-pipe.

Gemma wouldn’t dream of working on such a significant day to her distant relative’s people, so she calls in sick and dresses like a post-Shrek’d princess Fiona. Forgetting she has work contacts on social media she throws up a selfie:

“Yassssss luck of the Irish to ye hehe. Hope ye all have a great Paddy’s Day to be sure hehe #irish #paddysday #irishforaday #4leafclover #guinness #daydrunk #blessed

The line at Rosie O’Grady’s has more idiots jumping around than Riverdance. After all, it’s midday, and most of these Irish tradesmen have been drinking since Wednesday.

She hears the slur of seduction from behind her, “would ya look at you girl, what a ride, would ya be getting on the lash with me and all?” Gemma is stoked that a semi-coherent man that already has urine stains on his jeans has complimented her.

“Look, lass, I’m a bit walloped, but ya marn over there has cut me off and all, so c’mere till I tell ya like, could ya buy us a couple poiiiints of Guinness?”

Gemma poses for another selfie with her Guinness: “when in Rome hehe or should I say Ireland #guinness #beer #beerwench #tobesure”. She decides to take her leave when her new Emerald Isle friend is told to have a glass of water, “I will in my fuck, send over that poorcooooont see if I care and all”.

By 3pm, Gemma is more liquored than a bag of fermented potatoes. She is dancing a jig to possibly the worst music in the world with her favs. Nearby a couple of Irish girls start having a disagreement.

The lass with the Irish flag painted on her face gets the ol Temple Bar cheers – a glass to the back of the head. The catfight creates a cunter-fly effect, and poiiiiiint glasses start flying around the bar

By 9pm Gemma is feeling as belted as Conor McGregor’s face and needs a little stimulant pick-me-up. Sadly, the glitz and glamour of snorting weak blow in a vomitorium does little to pick up Gemma’s mood, and she takes her leave.

She spends the rest of her night tearing flesh from a kebab like an extra in the Walking Dead with her high heels off and crying at the Taxi rank for reasons us mere mortals will never understand.

What a glamorous day.

Documenting the Human Zoo is thirsty work, so if you enjoyed what you read how about buying Belle a beer, ay? 

 

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