Floored by Eleanor Wood

Author:Eleanor Wood
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Pan Macmillan UK

HUGO

‘This is fucking ridiculous.’

Well, that’s what I say in my head. It comes out a bit different. Slurry and fluffy and, still, that’s beside the point. This little power hungry TWAT won’t let me into his pathetic little club, and it is unacceptable.

‘Sorry, mate, but you’re too drunk,’ the twat says, loving every single second. He crosses his arms and smiles and I hate him and I hate his face and I hate how even he probably knows who I am and has probably read about my dad in the news, even though he’s an uneducated oxygen-sucking nobody BOUNCER on the shit part of the Ibiza strip and I bet he cannot believe his luck that he’s getting to enjoy a moment, just a moment, of feeling bigger than me.

Enjoy while it lasts, arsehole.

Then I call him the c-word. And then I feel my face hurting, and then I’m on the pavement, and I can’t see very well because there’s blood coming out of my eye for some reason. And, oh, fuck it. I’m being sick. I’m leaning over on the pavement and being sick on to the street.

I chunder it all out, and it hurts, but it’s OK and funny and not pathetic if you use the word ‘chunder’. David is here and I yell, ‘AND THEN I CHUNDERED EVERYWHERE!’ But he doesn’t seem to get the joke, because he’s always had a shit sense of humour.

He’s dragging me on to my feet. ‘Mate, you need to go back to the hotel and sober up.’

‘Since when do we call each other mate?’ I laugh, then I feel sick again. But there’s nothing else to sick up. David looks somewhat disgusted. He’s copying my most common facial expression.

It’s so noisy and it’s so hot and everywhere I look I can see a sunburned torso hanging out over some nasty shorts. We’re causing very little fuss – David and I – sat here next to my puddle of vom right in the middle of Ibiza. At least five drunk idiots have walked through it already in flip-flops, not noticing. It’s too busy and everyone’s too wasted and the music from all the competing bars is too loud, and I really need to have a line or two, actually, because I do feel quite wankered.

David is saying something. ‘Sleep it off . . . Come to the foam party later . . .I can’t believe that twat punched you . . . Everyone’s in there already . . . Come on . . . take one for the team.’

I stumble to my feet. ‘I don’t want to sleep it off; I want to get into the foam party.’

‘Well, they’re not letting you in, mate!’ He’s talking all common again.

‘Stop calling me mate. I’m not your fucking mate.’

I’m not sure why, but I’ve tried to punch David, and now he’s stormed off, calling me pathetic. And I sit back down on the pavement again, stretching my feet out into my vomit.

‘Fuck it,’ I say, and then I feel dripping and look down and see there’s blood all over my shirt.

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