The other week I was out with a few girls in London.  It was a WAG event (not that any of us are married to footballers) but our boyfriends/husbands were all on a boys ski trip.  We decided that as they were eating red meat, drinking red wine and probably unsuccessfully trying to chat up chalet girls, we’d have a girls night out.

It started off relatively civilized, a bottle of wine, chit chat. Then before we knew it, we were doing shots. This coincided with the arrival of what seemed like an infinite number of drunk, sweaty men/boys.  I say men/boys as it’s quite difficult to distinguish the age of these perspiring predators.

Even in bars which are considered ‘classy’ – which is code for ‘the drinks are that bit more expensive’ and the clientele aren’t members of the NUS, the same thing happens when you’re in a  group of girls.  At some point in the evening, whether you like it or not, you will be surrounded by a group of men/boys.  You will be dancing, they will be sweating.  It’s always a team attack.  There will be the obligatory 5 minutes where you pretend you don’t notice them, they will close in even more and its usually one of the following that happens to instigate some form of acknowledgment.

  1. They ‘fall’ into you or one of the other girls, thus encouraging an apology and using this as an opportunity to offer you a drink/lunge open mouthed for a snog. It is rare that this is a successful tactic unless the girl under attack is drunk beyond comprehension.
  2. A splash of sweat hits you in the eye, thus encouraging an apology…. (as above).
  3. The braver of the men/boys go in for a grope. This tends to result in a slap.

This is exactly the same format that has ensued for centuries in any establishment where both girls and men/boys are drinking alcohol.  So after realizing that we were doomed on the dance floor, we relocated to a less populated area of the bar. Picked up our jackets and handbags and carried on boogying the night away.  As the evening was coming to a close, we picked up our things to head out for a cab.

I put my coat on, wrapped my scarf around my neck and waited for the others to get themselves sorted. Turns out, everyone’s coat had been stolen.  We checked every possible corner, under the table, back to where the men/boys were earlier in case we’d left them there, knowing that we hadn’t but checking anyway.

Mixed emotions at this point.  A couple of the girls were too drunk to care, “Ah well”…others were raging… “That was my favourite!!”  I was in the awkward position of being the only one with jacket intact.  And to be honest, I was slightly insulted.  What was wrong with my jacket? In fact, only the week before, someone commented on how nice it was and asked where it was from.  The answer to that question probably solves the mystery of why I wasn’t shivering in the taxi queue.  It was from Asda.  And to be honest, it was £16 well spent. It didn’t look like a cheap coat, it kept me warm and was perfect for nights out and for work, being quite smart and fitted.  It’s probably not a jacket that a savvy thief would want, but then all the better.  I tried to console my friend who was mourning her favourite Zara Mac and explained that supermarket clothing ranges have really improved. Maybe that’s where she should consider getting the replacement.  She’ll save cash, and wont need to worry about it getting pinched next time she’s out.

Needless to say, it didn’t go down to well, but then I thought… I may not be wearing an expensive jacket, but at least I’m not cold.  And if it’s good enough for Coleen Rooney ( a proper WAG) then it’s fine for me!

And in a taxi queue in January, that’s worth it’s weight in gold!