Nil Points.

katydating, eurovision, summer1 Comment

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There is very little I find more frustrating than being indoors on a hot sunny evening when the rest of the world drinks Bulmers on ice in warm beer gardens across the country. Living in the heart of London, in an area which prides itself on its drinking establishments, not only do I have to imagine the fun I would be having had I planned my life more in keeping with the clement weather but I also have the pleasure of being able to hear, nay, almost smell the frivolity I ‘could have won.’ 
Sadly my days of blowing caution to the wind are long gone, and despite the hours of maternal warmth I have enjoyed since having a child, I do find myself, on occasion, mourning the balmy, boozy nights I once enjoyed. 
To add salt to the proverbial wound tonight, not only do I find myself wanting to dissect my own spleen with jealousy at the summer fun I am missing out on but also appear to be an unwitting victim of the Eurovision Song Contest. A programme, for those of you that have been in a coma for the last 37 years, which can only be described as the biggest pile of shit to grace our screens since the Olympics (just warming up people, just warming up). 
I am happy to say that this is the first time I have watched the cheese infested load of crap and though I pride myself on a macabre sense of humour, that has taken years of bad relationships, disappointments and let downs to fine tune, I fail to see how any functioning adult, with the majority of their mental faculties about them, could consider themselves ‘entertained’ by this television hell.


 It makes Matt Cardle look like Andrea Bocelli. 
The only silver lining was that the combination of being in on a blissful summer evening and watching half a dozen Eastern European prostitutes dance around a ladyboy singing about having a broken ankle, (or was that heart?) does, in a bizarre way, actually cure my boredom. Who knew that thinking up different ways to shoot yourself in the head could be so entertaining. 
And still she watched on …. 
In a sinister twist of fate not only do I watch until the credits are about to roll, I almost crack a smile. 
This all time life low got me thinking. Not about the political unrest in Azerbaijan or the uncanny resemblance Englebert Humperdinck bares to Neil Diamond after one to many burgers, but that, quite simply put, I need to start having some sex. 
Good God, I’m writing about the Eurovision Song Contest on a sex and relationship blog. Somebody bend me over, this is getting serious. 
You see, here’s the thing. After my rather feeble attempt at a relationship a few months ago I thought, in my naive disollusionment, that it might be a rather refreshing novelty to lay off dating for a bit; to enjoy the single life.
 I find the idea of scouring the world for a partner in the hope that, one day, I might find ‘the one’ almost as depressing as spending a Saturday night watching an Estonian escort girl singing about ‘Dreaming, Woohoo, dreaming, yeah, yeah of you oohh, ohh’ but on nights like this there’s not much between it. 
Understand this much, I’m under no illusions. God no, I know there’s as much chance of me meeting someone these days who I could possibly bear in my life for longer than 3 weeks as there is Englebert walking home with a trophy. But I want some fun. And I want it now. 
So what’s a girl to do? file her nails to a Graham Norton voice over while the world gets drunk in Gastro pub gardens across the capital or get back out there and re-enter the competition.
Sometimes all it takes is a bit of sun and a Turkish dude in a plastic coat singing about a horny mermaid to change your mind. 
And who said the world’s gone mad …
katyNil Points.

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