To the bar!
When first discussing the vodka picnic, it was poo-pooed by herself. But I can honestly say that vodka, cheese, bread, hummus and crisps go together exceedingly well (as Mr Kipling would say)
It was scheduled to kick off at 3, but considering the shocking public transport in Gloucestershire it had to be postponed. Three fucking buses from Cirencester to Stroud?! They’re having a giraffe, surely? Nope. Just three. *shakes fist because Stroud doesn’t have London frequency bus timetables*
Even once I’d got to Gloucester, there was much more flapping required and a death stare from the woman who works opposite my workplace as I opened the gates. With my key. Because I’m allowed to do that. The forgotten vodka and cups were duly picked up and we made our way to Asbad’s. (Or Asda’s to the uninitiated)
Olives were pondered over and the ones without chilli were chosen, although this turned out to be a lie. There was *definately* chilli in those olives…unless we were both having vodka-induced hallucinations? Meh.
We also went to the trouble to decant the vodka into non-vodka bottles because we were paranoid about drinking in public and all those silly by-laws. We needn’t have bothered, as loads of people were quite openly drinking in the park. Arse.
A smashing picnic was had by all, we were on a drinking par. In the zone as it were. The need for dancing/movement was beginging to build, and so we went back to ‘er house for some more faffery, a change of clothes and to listen to Mika very quietly.
For some reason, we decided to still lug around the smashing straw picnic bag (minus the cheese) and skipped off to Cafe Rene. It was it’s usual lovely self and we made the most of the evening by sitting outside on our lugged around blanket, which was then nabbed by a gay man, who felt the need to tell us he was gay. Okaaaay.
I can’t believe that we actually missed the fireworks that we were actually going to watch. Oh well, upon further discussion neither of us actually gave too much of a fuck about them and were just humouring the other one. Hooray for communication! Well done us 
It was somewhere around here that the evening deteriorated. We went inside, drank more beer and remembered that the barman was actually that one from ages ago that made us that, quite frankly, bloody awful drink of tequilla and tropical fruit (don’t do it) And there was much rejoicing.
And just incase after that you were thinking, Mmmm tequilla and tropical fruit juice - that sounds nice! Here is a picture of Mr Barman who may mix it for you:
Don’t say I didn’t warn you when you realise that it actually just tastes of tobbacco.
We were also joined by the Polish contingent at this point and faffed about dancing and drinking until for some reason it all got a bit weird, and there was even an arguement about who bought their phone first. Honestly - it has to be one of the most pointless debates I’ve ever had, and had I been sober I would have just laughed. I think I may have learnt an important lesson on Saturday night…possibly. It has something to do with drinking, but the moral stance escapes me now.
I got home at about 5.30am - it was getting light. I realise now that there was much more tomfoolery going on in the graveyard outside than my mind remembered. Just for the record, it was not me engaging in tomfoolery, it was *cough* somebody else.
Moosh
Tags: Cafe Rene, vodka picnic, barmen
