I love balls. In fact I can’t think of a better way to spend a night. Who can forget the New Year’s Eve ball when I got swept off my feet, “Officer and a Gentleman” style by a beautiful Norwegian. Things got even better when I caught sight of his six pack, the first time I have never seen one without “Dutch Gold*” written down the side.

What’s not to love about a ball? You get to dress up like a princess and all the blokes look fab in a tux. How a dark suit, white shirt and oblong of black material can transform nerd boy into James Bond is beyond me, but it generally works. (Although the next day it is the female equivalent of seeing someone without their make-up. The beer goggles and suit are discarded and instead you see them pull on their stone-wash denims and “Saw doctors” t-shirt.)

Last week I was at a ball with my old college room mate Breda. We meet up once a year in Ireland or the UK to attend a ball, this year it was London. Now Breda is an interesting character. Since I have known her she has never managed to go home alone after a night out. She always has a man with her. Sometimes she brings them back for tea, other times she passes out, but generally she shags them as if it were a competitive sport. I know this because only a thin Kellogg’s-Cornflake-box-thick wall divided our rooms at college.

Breda isn’t a screamer during sex, but she is most definitely a talker. Unfortunately for me her dialogue seemed to be lifted directly from a 1970’s porn movie. Anyone (un)lucky enough to have slept with an Irish guy will know that they tend not to speak during sex, with the exception of the following phrases:

“I’ll only stick it in for a minute.‿
“You never get pregnant the first time / standing up.‿
“Honest that’s my finger.‿

So the sex talk between Breda and her Irish conquests tended to be more of a monologue – a vagina monologue if you will.

This year however Breda managed to excel herself at not going home alone. We were sat at the table, the beef or salmon completed, when Breda decided it was time for a “3L”, ( loo, lap and liquid ). After a pretty prolonged period of time I noticed that she hadn’t returned. Naturally I was concerned - my drink was completely gone and I needed to pee. Making my way back from the loo I spotted Breda tackling a guy against a pillar. He was pretty cute in a “if you like blonds‿ way, which I don’t. She made a waving, don’t expect me back sign and I carried on. A few hours later I ran into said blond, but no Breda.

Enquiring as to her whereabouts he explained that they had left to get a cab, she had wandered down the road and hadn’t come back. Now this was highly unusual as Breda never goes home alone. May be we were finally growing up. At this point I decided to make my apologies and leave. When I arrived back at Breda’s flat I was puzzled to hear the familiar porn movie phrases emanating from her room or rather boom-boxing their way around the flat. Eventually I passed out to the refrain of “oh yes big boy, do it to me‿ or something similar.

The next morning I found a dark haired boy in the kitchen who looked like he had lost the competitive shagging competition. I made awful, “honest I didn’t hear you shagging” conversation, before grabbing my gallon of water and going back to the sofa.

Eventually he left and Breda emerged into the living room. I enquired who the dark haired boy was.

“So, is that the current dial-a-shag?‿ - me

“No. It’s the guy I was snogging at the pillar when you passed, think his name is Stephen. Your memory is even worse than mine‿ - Breda

“No, I met that guy later in the night. He had BLOND hair and he said you lost him on the street‿ me.

Well if a picture can paint a thousand words, Breda’s face said “SHIT‿ – repeatedly.

After some discussion we realised that some random bloke on his way home from somewhere had the luckiest night of his life.

* “Dutch Gold” is a suspect brand of larger in a can.
** “Saw Doctors” are a suspect Irish music band.

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