Five Options for Your Walk of Shame
We've all done it.
You’ve just spotted your jacket tucked underneath a snoring, saliva encrusted paramour when you realise it; you’re post-party, in some unknown part of the country, in the acidic morning light. It’s time for The Walk of Shame. Here are five (and a bit) options:
1. The Walk of Shame
It’s traditional and delightfully jolt free, but where’s the shade? You don’t want to see the sun in this condition. And do you really think you can make it the whole way home without passing out? I doubt it. You‘re not even entirely sure what language is being spoken around you, let alone whether you’re in walking distance from your house.
2. The Taxi of Shame
Oooh. Lovely. It’s warm and cosy. You can sleep. There’s only one pair of disapproving eyes staring at you, and even he has to flick them over to the road occasionally. The prices are high in Taxi-of-shame land though. How far do you have to go? What happens if you barf? How much money did you lose on that really intense game of hide and seek you had at 4am? Watch out, or you’ll have to pay your debt to the driver chipping away at an old Ford Granada in one of his taxi mines.
3. The Bus of Shame
Lovely and cheap, we’ll give it that. But the eyes. Good lord THE EYES! You sit at the back, for fear of being spotted, but some corpulent chatterbox on their way to work has nominated you as their new best friend. Well done, that stinking pretty face of yours has landed you into trouble. Again. Due to constant stops and incompetent driving, it’s impossible to make it home without hopping off to chunder at least once. Therefore buy a day pass.
4. The Train of Shame
Delightful, but for the waiting. Once aboard you have pretty much cart-blanche to indulge all your hangover needs; there’s a nice big toilet, a haggard looking man selling tea and coffee (or hair-of-the-dog, if you’re what Itchy likes to call a “Party Psycho.”) The only problem is the platform. There’s a train announcer babbling wordlessly in your ears like some verbally incontinent demon; an army of businessmen trying to gouge out your eyes with their briefcases; and the train line stretching off into the distance keeps reminding you of the humbling nature of infinity, as mocked by the grim inevitability of death. No-one needs that.
4.5 The Tram of Shame
The number of working tramlines in the British Isles is woefully inadequate. Think on it, Britain.
5. The Drive of Shame
No. Just, no. You’re still drunk aren’t you? Are you sure? Many a morning’s accident’s been caused by fools thinking that two hours sleep constitutes an adequate sobering up period. Anyway, do you have any idea where you left your car? Thought not.
On those mornings where you’ve left your dignity in the other trousers, fear not and be not ashamed; there’s plenty more like you, wandering the streets like beautiful doe-eyed zombies. Some of them even remember what they did. Imagine that.