I fancied a sunbed today, new year, new me and all that.
Now I don’t know about you, but I find the entire experience of a sunbed extremely stressful.
For a start, being fair (and when I say fair I mean ‘white as a fucking sheet’), the sunbed lady, who has now known me for approximately 6 years looks me up and down like a nodding dog.
Sometimes, she even throws in a ‘oooh I don’t think you should do 8 love, when was the last time you had one?’
‘It was yesterday, and I’m sorry if I dont look like Madge from Benidorm but thats just the way it is’.
I also never enjoy the ‘have you got cream?’ interrogation. No, I haven’t got cream, no I dont want cream. I’m far from a cheapskate ladies and gentleman but to pay £5 for a sachet of what, in effect, does the same job as poundhsop cocoa butter, makes about as much sense as Dappy being in ‘celebrity’ Big Brother.
I love the way the sunbed sales woman always tuts ‘oooh you’ll never get a colour’. No, no I wont. Laying inbetween 12 1000 watt bulbs for 8 minutes will have absolutly no effect on me what so ever will it?
Once you do pass the gatekeeper, you assume you can relax, have a sunbed, and sod off. But still so so many obstacles to over come.
Now I’m a quick undresser. I’m a bloody quick undresser (see ‘stripper on ice’). But give me that little red ‘countdown timer’ and I’m slower than an 89 year old check out woman.
It reminds me of the NASA shuttle launch count down, and in turn, I faff, fall, get things caught and usually have seconds to spare (what DOES actually happen if you take longer than the allocated 5 minutes to get dressed?).
And then the finale. You FINALLY get on the sunbed, and I dont know about you, but EVERY SINGLE NOISE the sunbed makes symbolizes the fact it is going to explode, engulf you in a ball of flames and kill you slowly.
I can hear you all asking me why i dont don’t use fake tan. Thats another story…..
Just a gentle remider (around as gentle as the Incredible Hulk rocking you to sleep), the ultimate aim for this blog is to raise money for Cancer Research.
So please give, even if it’s only a pound. Because lets face it if you met me you would want to buy me a drink anyway (to get rid of me)
Kelly Jackson is fundraising for Cancer Research UK
When signing up for Cancer Research’s Dryathlon, I assumed that going out with friends would be the toughest test to stay dry.
What I didn’t envision was how much alcohol had becone a force of habit.
‘Oh I’ll just have a Baileys to help me sleep’ oop, no, doing Dryathlon.
My second alternative to get a good nights kip while having a chest infection and breathing like Darth Vader running the marathon was some Nytol, which were pretty amazing, and I am now considering conducting all my nights out while off my tits on them.
Another benefit is how entertaining you find the little things in life while sober.
The cat doing a gravity defying, spontaneous backflip certainly provided hours of fun.
I’m still laughing now.
Yes, I know the above doesn’t seem like a challenge for most people, as there are some people out there who have stayed sober for the entirety of their lives (Like Jesus), but it is fair to say, I do like a drink.
I kicked off my ‘Dryathlon’ going home from New Years Eve at 11pm because I felt ill. I had mixed emotions about this turn of events, however it was nice to wake up without having to do the ‘Clothestacle Course’ to go and throw up in the toilet.
NB: for those who don’t know, the ‘Clothestacle Course’ is what you have to navigate through in the morning to get to the bathroom after doing the ‘Stripper on Ice’
NB: The ‘Stripper on Ice’ dance is what you do, when you come in at 4am all mortal, start taking your clothes off to get into bed, but sway around like a Titanic passenger and leave a trail of clothes around the room but still end up in bed naked with your earrings on.
This is just a polite note to the BBC, if ‘Strippers on Ice’ does become a primetime programme I will be using this blog as evidence that you stole my idea, although not if you invite Vanessa Feltz to take part as I would hate to be responsible for the public having to see her growler.
Another nice part of today was to wake up to normal standard SMS messaging from friends such as ‘How are you feeling’ etc, and not ‘You were sick on my table last night’ or ‘you got naked in my kitchen’
So, if you are one of many people who deffo does not believe I can hack it sober, please sponsor me so I can prove you wrong: