James picks up the traffic cone and hurls it across the room. It knocks over a lamp.
I’M THAT MORTIFIED, LADS. I’VE GOT GLITTER IN PLACES GLITTER SHOULD NEVER BE. I’M LIKE A HUMAN FABERGE EGG.
(Voice like gravel) Why does me fanny taste like last night’s tequila? And why am I wearin’ a single sock and a traffic warden’s hat? Geordie Shore
CHLOE (21), mascara smeared down her face like she’s auditioning for a horror film, rolls off the sofa. She lands on a half-inflated inflatable dolphin.
Two hours later, they are all banned from a karaoke bar called “The Crooning Cod.” James picks up the traffic cone and hurls it across the room
storms in, looking like a pumped-up pitbull in a spray-on T-shirt. He is furious.
all scream in unison. The iconic synth bassline kicks in. I’VE GOT GLITTER IN PLACES GLITTER SHOULD NEVER BE
RIGHT. WHO PUT A FIREWORK IN MY BEDROOM TOILET?