Being taller than the majority of men, let alone women, I only wear heels for comedy or shock value. On the rare occasions the courage is plucked up to don them on a night out (or God forbid in the daylight!), I make my friends look like children being led through the streets by an off-balance transvestite of a Pied Piper figure.
Rather than being transforned into a stilettoed vixen I resemble a toddler attempting to be a grown-up, arms flailing and buttocks clenched with concentration.
Due to the fear I might fall and shatter all my teeth whilst teetering in the lethal clodhoppers other women could cartwheel in, I decided to invest in a pair of cowboy boots with a sensible heel. I should probably add that this was a decade ago, when I was at university, and I can assure you cowboy boots were in fashion (I hope).
Despite the boots’ practically grip-free soles, the heels couldn’t have been more than an inch and a half. Surely even I could cope with that ever so slight tilt of the ankle.
To my delight the perfect opportunity to strut about in the boots like a real life lady-being presented itself the following week when my house mates and I were venturing out to celebrate a good pal’s birthday.
Sadly I’d only had time for one drink before we hit the town – unusual for a poor student like me who normally tanked myself up on the cheap before being released into the night like a screeching hyena. My house mates, on the other hand, hadn’t been so reserved and were already gallivanting down the street as I closed the door behind me.
Alas, the strutting in my lady boots I had been so looking forward to was short-lived because a mere three strides later my completely smooth-soled right boot skidded from under me. I heard a crack as my body – and predominantly my elbow – smacked onto the ground.
Dazed and ashamed, I attempted to peel my decrepit body off the pavement when all of a sudden a pair of muscular arms grasped me by the armpits. What the dickens? Whoever could this knight in shining armour be?
Struggling to twist my head, I caught a glimpse of my saviour as I was hoisted into the air. Much to my disappointment the vision I was greeted with was not exactly my ideal man, but I suppose he could be classified within an obscure sub-genre of Adonis.
My hero came in the form of the giant beefcake of a bouncer that worked at the strip club next door. A 45-year-old Hulk Hogan and Michael Bolton (when he had long creepy curly hair) hybrid would be the closest comparison. Not exactly my cup of tea, but each to their own.
Thanking Hulk Bolton, I staggered down the road, desperately looking ahead and expecting to be greeted by my dear friends.
But instead of seeing them sprinting to my rescue with open arms they were running in the other direction, squealing some nonsense about a guy they had spotted who looked just like Bob Holness.
Silly me. Of course this was far more important than consoling their poor chum, slumped in a heap being cradled by a silky-haired bouncer in disturbingly bollock-hugging trousers.
<a href=”https://embracingtheidiotic.files.wordpress.com/2014/03/hulk_hogan.jpg”><img class=”size-medium wp-image-495 ” src=”https://embracingtheidiotic.files.wordpress.com/2014/03/hulk_hogan.jpg?w=168″ alt=”My knight in shining spandex” width=”168″ height=”300″ /></a> My knight in shining spandex
I attempted to fill my friends in on the traumatic event they had missed. Their drunken sympathy – clouded by the excitement of the Bob Holness doppelgänger sighting – lasted all of 10 seconds before they continued to stagger into town.
Carrying my floppy arm, I reassured myself that the sensation of pain would disappear. But as I thrashed about clumsily at the cash point trying to draw out money a pang of sickness washed over me.
‘Control yourself, you’re only feeling vomitous because you hit your funny bone,’ I thought, continuing to lug my lifeless forearm into the first nightclub.
But this wasn’t even our final destination – we were meeting people for a drink before heading to a bar to meet the birthday girl. As I’d known her since we were 11 I couldn’t wimp out, especially over a little knock to the elbow.
What a bloody dedicated friend I was; bravely soldiering on, convinced having a few more drinks would help numb the pain. Indeed, that was a most excellent idea.
We spotted our friends in the dingy corner of the club and bumbled over. Being a rather emotionally awkward character, I’ve never really pulled off the huggy style of greeting that seems to have become the norm. However, on this occasion I was even less enthusiastic to partake because each squeeze I received made me wince with agony as the arm was crushed.
With the highly unsatisfying physical hellos out of the way I breathed a sigh of relief. Must stop thinking about the arm, just carry it for a bit longer and it will miraculously heal, I repeated in my head. I dodged paying for a few rounds to spare the elbow any unnecessary movement, but still somehow managed to consume a decent amount of alcohol.
With a bubble of false, drunken confidence surrounding me, we set off to the next bar. I brushed off the odd enquiry as to why I was carrying my limb around like a pet guinea pig and tried to ignore the twinges pulsating through my joint.
At last we arrived. I had persevered and achieved my goal of wishing my friend a happy bloody birthday. More excruciatingly painful hugging occurred and I desperately staggered over to prop my arm on a table.
Now, the most sensible thing to have done would be to accept there was a good chance I had sustained a broken bone. The other option was consuming copious amounts of Jägermeister to further numb the agony. Being someone prone to ignoring the painful truth, I opted for the latter.
As fellow drinkers might be aware, the effects of alcohol can take a drastic turn at any point and transform you into an utter emotional wreck. One minute I was jesting about my lifeless limb, the next I was squealing like a deranged pig.
“My arm,” I wailed to my friend, bringing a sudden downer to her birthday high. “I think it’s broken…I slipped…the Hulk Hogan bouncer saved me (snort)…my (snort)…arm…waaaaahhhh!”
So approximately seven hours after the bone hitting tarmac incident took place my ever so proud (and unsurprisingly now ex) boyfriend was informed that his steaming heap of a woman needed to be collected.
Off to A&E we trundled and despite my desperate attempts to convince the nurses I wasn’t drunk when the accident took place, my slurring and booze-infused breath implied otherwise.
Those savvy nurses were having none of my intoxicated shite and made me wait until the last patient had been seen and enough alcohol had left my system for the real agony to set in. Make the drunken fool suffer, their scornful looks said.
The following week, as I typed my bastard essay one-handed with my other shattered arm bound in a sling, I cursed those cowboy boots. Being an oversized-toddler incapable of coordinating limbs and brain at once, even one-and-half inch heels were too much for my gangly frame to conquer.
Embracing the idiotic 
