My life is a sit-com

This week is a primary example of the sit-com of a life I lead.

Go to the ASI Boat Party on the Thames with about 20 other Owen's economics keen-beans.

Lay down the law that the absolute bare minimum amount of classes of champagne drunk by each student must be 10 if we are to live through this boat trip.

We begin the night by downing 2 glasses each.

We depart from the boat, at 9pm so epically drunk that two people are immediately sick.

Some Etonians tell us it will be a really good idea to go to the Carlton Club.

Within an hour we're asked to leave because we're 'too drunk'.

From the top of the stairs I can see the aristocracy ascending; some fresh from the countryside in Barbours and boots.

I, thinking it will be a really good idea, decide to slide down the banisters and am successful for about three steps then elegantly fall off.

In my drunken state, in the middle of the Carlton Club's red carpeted staircase, try to compose myself, close my eyes and steady myself. I take a calm step forward, forgetting entirely that I am on stairs.

I subsequently roll down the remaining stairs and pick up so much momentum I roll myself out of the club and with a little help from Felix (furious at me by this point) I am bundled directly into a cab home.

I arrive home at 10:30, a despicable time to be so drunk.

I had never been sick from alcohol in my life (my 'eastern european' tolerance has stayed true), until this night.

I fall asleep in the bathtub and am woken up at 8am when my mother comes in to get ready for work, I jump up and convince her I am just on my way to school.

In full ball-gown I grab my bag and walk straight out the door with purpose.

Sick on the train and sick again in economics; a lesson entirely spent by us telling the teacher all our various anecdotes from the night before (I think he is rather proud), I decide to go home.

My booker calls to tell me that I have been booked to do a British Vogue shoot that very afternoon, just for a few hours.

I'm so pleased I forget I'm ill and run over to the location.

Wondering around in Piccadilly, I eventually find the right street and the right location.

To my horror,

It's the Carlton Club.

Can you believe it? 

The same staircase, the same rooms, just without all the people; no one that had worked there the night before was there, it was empty.

Still wobbly, perched on the top of a fireplace, they take a group picture of us.  

I leave the shoot to meet my best friend Milo, he consoles me and helps me pack.

I leave my suitcase at Felix's house.

I go to Wembley to meet Stefan to see Oasis live for their last show. 

We talk about how much we want to see Bruno, which comes up the next day but how we won't be around. This really puts a dampener on our Oasis experience.

Suddenly we realise that the premier for all new films is at midnight the day before, we immediately call up cinemas asking if they have tickets, we pay a shit load and dance the evening away more excited about the prospect of seeing Bruno than Oasis.

We run straight to the cinema only to watch 2 hours of, essentially, gay porn.

I walk at 2am to Felix's house where his mother, the MP of Islington, drives us to Gatwick and we fly on a school history trip to Berlin.

This being the first time I had a chance to sleep in 2 days I slept through take off and landing, leaning the whole time on a man I did not know.

When arriving I thought it would be 4 days of relaxing.

I was wrong.

We walked the length and breadth of Berlin and went to see concentration camps. It was exhausting; physically and emotionally.

When I came back I slept 15 hours.