Did you see Donald Trump’s #Covfefe tweeting blunder today and think:
“Oh bloody hell, he’s drunk tweeting”
If you don’t have a Scooby what I am banging on about, at midnight last night the Trumpinator published a rather confusing tweet which said, “Despite the constant negative press covfefe”.
And it has caused an absolute twit storm (see what I did there?).
It has since been deleted but you can find a lot of talk about it on Twitter or in the online press.
Don’t worry, I am not turning into some political blogger. Rather the opposite actually. His unfortunate typo reminded me of nights out that ended with drunk messages.
You know the ones; when 1 drink after work turns into waaaaaaay too many wineys, shots of sambuca, and a dirty kebab at 2am.
Back in my mid-20s, this was a regular occurence for me and my work pals. We were all pretty tight and lived within walking distance of each other, so Friday nights with no plans usually ended in a trip to Reflex.
I’d usually wake up on Saturday, in the same clothes, trying to piece together what exactly happened the night before.
The hangover panic
Do I have my keys? Yes, I am in my flat and my door is not smashed in. TICK.
How much and what did I drink? No idea.
Did I go the cashpoint and get even more money out? Usually, yes.
What time did I get in? No idea.
What did I do, or say, and to whom? Erm?
Do I have my bag, purse and phone? Hopefully, yes.
I’m not some kind of asshole, but I do definitely have a naughty side that I still have to keep a tight leash on when I’ve got a drink in my hand. So I’d always assume that I’d been a bit too honest, or been showing off in front of someone I shouldn’t have.
The ‘drink depression’ would set in.
The only person I’d usually be able to discuss it with was my best friend. She and I were both easily encouraged into binge drinking. The only way to lift the drink depression fog would be to fess up from whatever silly mess we’d gotten ourselves into to each other.
A conversation would usually start with “Oh you dickhead” but end with “yeah, but it didn’t happen”.
Even when it did happen and we were fully away that it had, it still made us feel better. Like it wasn’t really that bad, and it would all be OK on Monday when we crossed the office threshold again.
Everyone needs a friend that doesn’t judge you and has your back regardless.
The only problem was that in order to speak to her about the night, I’d have to pick up my phone.
In doing so, I’d find messages that made no sense (usually to her), texts to boys that I was supposed to be ignoring, and sometimes comments on Facebook photos.
The messages would usually prove that I’d had way more to drink than I’d thought and that I was still awake much later than I’d thought. They’d also show that when drunk, I was a bit of a twat.
Technology should not have featured in my night.
So when I read about #covfefe I couldn’t help but think about the stupid messages that we’d have sent when we were banjaxed.
Messages like, “Meet me at corn snaka” or “I am under desolation row”.
I just hope that Donald has a good mate that he can call to make him feel better. If he hasn’t sacked them all, that is…