I heart rugby

Well, suffice it to say after 12.5 hours' sleep last night (yes, got into bed at 7:30. Next-door neighbour was just leaving for Caprice), I'm back in the game! Yesterday I was a non-entity. A waste of space. A lost cause. A sorry excuse for a human being. Plankton.

Now I feel totally immortal. Super Olive! ---> If I can come out the other end of that weekend even partially alive, I can take on anything! An earthquake, heartbreak, the plague... U send it my way, I'll knock it right outta the playing field!

Friday night, ended up snuggled sleepily under blankets on balcony ploughing through bottles of champagne with the girls, gorging on stale chips and conducting an indepth conversation on sex, death and finger nail buffing. From one extreme to the next: an hour later we were rocking out in the car to some eardrum-busting chest-vibrating rave tooons, on our way to HQ where we danced like fabulous morons to a tropical drum beat. Before I was dragged to Dreaded Deco I dived-bombed and hit the sack early in preparation for England's game against Argentina the following morning.

Awoke with HQ drum beat in head, mascara on pillow, still wearing sequined top, one high heel and a sock. Canned pineapple juice (from where I don't know) and half a rusk next to bed. Forced myself into shower then headed off to where else but Caturra to watch the game. Slumped over deliciously perfect freezocino and a crispy croissant layered with bacon, cheese and avocado, in front of large flatscreen, I soon realised I was the only England supporter in the room. Was not at all impressed by some of the rude comments on the new stylish 'charcoal' tops sported by the so-called "The Also Blacks"  –

• "Did the All Blacks shrink in the wash?"

• "The English are like that person who wears white to someone else's wedding"

Was most elated when England scored a try in the final 10 minutes and I leapt onto my chair woooowoooo-ing and cheering patriotically, teeming with revenge and spite. Silence ensued. 'Woo' I quipped again, to the tempestuous coffin-dodger sitting behind me in an Argetinian scarf. 'In your face!'

My friend stared at me, appalled.
Me: 'Sorry, I blacked out... I'm still drunk.'

I screamed so hard when we won that I choked on my croissant.

And so the day progressed – hangover slowly dwindling, we headed for the Biscuit Mill where we purchased a bottle of bubbly and sat with friends in the sunshine giggling childishly at the washed-up Safrican mystriants that flock to the Mill on a Saturday morn to stuff there faces with an array of nosh then wash down their hangovers with novice mohitos. Big, small, fat, thin, gay, straight, white, black, pink, blue, hairy, bald, human, inhuman... At 2 o'clock, tipsy and windburnt, we raced of to V&A, bought a ticket for the worst movie in the world... wait for it... Final Destination 5... IN 3D!!... and proceeded to watch blood, spikes, rolling eyeballs, gurgling and deaths for the remainder of the afternoon. After burger and beer at my all-time favourite Hudsons, popped home to prepare for romping razzle at Tiger with Vivi&Lola. Felt like letting loose – found shortest skirt and highest heels in cupboard and despite gale-force winds and a threatening 14 degrees, discarded my stockings and wrapped myself in a ski jacket to get from flat to car.

Sunday: up early for rugby. Head to Sotano kitted out in Springbok shirt, gold shoes and hangover. Feeling the after effects of two nights out, smashed eggs benedict, an extra bowl of hollandaise, my friend's leftover eggs benedict, a bowl of mushrooms, my sister's leftover fruit, a sausage, a hot chocolate, the rest of my friend's hot chocolate, a coke, a strawberry juice, an orange juice. Not sure it was the nerves during such a stressful match, or lack of nutrition thanks to bender weekend, but my appetite was bottomless. There was no off button. Needless to say I owed 2/3rds of the bill. Left relieved (Go Bokke!!!!!) and stuffed, and spent day melding with couch.

Fun week ahead. Stay toooooned!