This week I’m taking a break from the usual motorsport column (purely because I didn’t do any marshalling) to share with you all my Saturday adventure to Hooters with the girls.
After missing out on tickets to Oulton Park on Saturday, I wasn’t up for sitting around the house doing absolutely nothing, so myself and my five best buds Corrina, Laura, Helen, Lauren and Martin decided it was time we did something fun, and had a little racy adventure. Only this time it was going to be that kind of racy.
Having been under strict orders from Corrina not to go out and get hammered the night before I was feeling surprisingly energetic as I set off to Preston at 9am, so energetic in fact that I was doing 36mph in a 30 zone when I came across a mobile speed camera. That’s 3 points for me then.
I managed to make it to Preston without breaking the law any further, only to find the person who had told us not to drink was suffering from a major hangover and wondering whether death would be a better idea than a quick train journey down to Nottingham, but a quick brew soon sorted her out and soon Martin, Corrina and I were in the back of Laura’s car headed to Wigan train station. Sadly the hangover kicked in as we pulled into the station car park and we were left hanging around for about 10 minutes whilst waiting for good old Miss Drinkypants to finish vomiting against the wall. We’re classy like that you see.
Guts safely left alongside an empty packet of crisps and a brick wall and we headed up to the station to meet Lauren, but once there we realised we’d missed the train by about 5 minutes. No big deal I guess – apart from the fact the final adventure-goer Helen was waiting for us in Manchester – we’ll just get our tickets and stock up on crisps and alcohol for the journey ahead. This part of the plan went flawlessly until we discovered that when I had said to the ticket moron that I’d have “the same as the others please” he interpreted it as; “I don’t want to go to Manchester like all my friends, I’ll have a ticket to Bolton please.” We should have taken this as an omen that things were to get a lot worse….
By the time we eventually got to Manchester we didn’t have enough time to buy our tickets to Nottingham, so plumped to buy them on the train. Little did we know that moronic Northern Rail employee number two would soon be informing us that tickets were £45 on the train rather than the £16(ish) Laura was told on the phone, so we were promptly booted off at Stockport where we had to wait for another hour after buying our tickets from the Virgin trains employee with the most boring voice I had ever heard in my life.
An hour later and we were finally on a train which turned out not to be stopping in Nottingham. Brilliant. Luckily for us, Laura had made such good friends with the drinks trolley (and the woman operating it) that we managed to convince her to let us off in Nottingham after sharing our horrific tale with her over a bottle of wine. How we didn’t get kicked off that train is beyond me, but two hours later than planned and bursting for a wee, cigarette and some food we had finally made it. Now all we needed to do was find Hooters.
After wandering aimlessly around Nottingham for about a hour we finally gave up and thumbed a taxi to take us to this American diner wonderland of food and boobies. You might wonder why five girls and one boy wanted to travel for six hours to eat hot dogs and look at girls in spandex… I often asked myself the same question during the trip, and honestly I still have no idea why, but whilst I kept this to myself one of the lucky girls in our party wasn’t quite so subtle…
…Brilliantly, the one who shall remain unnamed blurted out “Where are all the big boobies?” the minute we walked through the door, to which the shockingly unprofessional manager barked; “Is this the first time you’ve been out love?” to a girl who obviously knows her way around a bar. From that moment on, the gauntlet had been thrown down then and it was Us Vs. Hooters. Inevitably Hooters won in the end as they let us order and eat before the manager threw said girl out for asking for a complaints form. Since when was requesting a feedback form a bannable-from-Hooters offence?
So, a table full of food, two bottles of wine and a huge doggy bag later and we were back out in the rain and heading back to the train station to make a hopefully less painful journey back to Preston for a night out in Warehouse. Making it back to the city 12 hours after we had originally set out did mean we were knackered, make up-less and not exactly in the mood for drinking and dancing.
Like true professionals we put some slap on in the train station toilets, manned up and headed out for round two… I wish I could share the rest of the evenings events with you, but apart from the tallest, hunkiest guy ever finding his way onto my radar, what goes down in Warehouse, stays in Warehouse.