Day 101 & 102: The Weekend Extravaganza

(A JABatha Christie special: starring toast, gastroparesis, and one delusional Cruella De Vil)

Wow.

What.

A.

Weekend.

Honestly, if there were medals for surviving chaos wrapped in glitter and digestive failure - I’d be a gold medallist by now.

Saturday - The Witching Hour Begins 🧙‍♀️🎶

It started slow… too slow.

A lazy Saturday morning, the calm before the storm.

I had plans - big plans - but my stomach apparently had other ones, namely, “let’s retch dramatically for no reason.”

So yes, the morning opened with a mandatory gastroparesis performance - complete with the classic saliva vomit and soundtrack of regret.

Oscar-worthy, truly.

Managed to hold down a single piece of toast for breakfast (luxurious, I know), then another one for lunch.

The Michelin-star diet of champions.

Then came the transformation.

Cruella.

Freaking.

De.

Vil.

Two full hours later, I emerged from the bathroom looking like I’d just come off a movie set - a villainous queen with eyeliner sharp enough to slice bread and a wig that could probably pick up Wi-Fi.

My other half?

Refused to go as my Dalmatian.

Absolutely refused.

No spots, no collar, no commitment.

One day he’ll look back and realise the opportunity he wasted.

Until then, I’ll remain the lone Cruella - fabulous, furious, and slightly nauseous.

Enter: The Day Rave.

Yes.

You read that right.

A day rave.

At my age.

Before you judge, know this: nothing says “maturity” quite like dancing to house music at 3PM while sipping water and silently praying your stomach behaves.

We met friends at the station (I drove, because designated driver = control freak with a weak stomach).

Hopped on the train, gathered the troops, and hit a nearby pub before heading to XOYO.

That’s when I realised - people go hard for Halloween:

We’re talking:

🦌 A deer in the headlights (literally).

🧙‍♂️ Monks.

🩸 People with silicone skin hanging off.

🏥 Bloody nurses.

🧑‍⚖️ A judge.

🕶️ Ali G.

🐦 Rod Hull with actual Emu.

👮‍♀️ Prisoners.

💀 Skeletons doing body rolls.

🧛‍♂️ A vampire couple snogging like it was their last night on Earth.

🧟‍♀️ Zombies with glitter (festive but terrifying).

🪓 A guy with a fake axe through his head ordering a pint like it was no big deal.

👹 A demon in Adidas tracksuit bottoms.

👰‍♀️ A zombie bride dragging half a mannequin as her “groom.”

🎃 A six-foot pumpkin with glow sticks.

⛓️The Ibiza Final Boss with a gold chain (he might be the only one believing it was actually gold).

👹 A poor impersonation of Ed Ghein.

🕸️ A cobweb-covered DJ who looked like he’d been trapped behind the decks since 2003.

👻 Someone dressed as a haunted USB stick (very niche).

…and of course, the classic “I didn’t even try” crowd, who just show up in jeans with a drink and vibes.

Now, my boyfriend - credit where it’s due - absolutely nailed it.

He wore this incredible black T-shirt with a 3D ghost DJing on decks, and it was so trippy that everyone who looked at it did a double take.

People were coming up just to stare, blinking like, “Wait… is it moving?” It gave full haunted nightclub energy.

10/10 optical illusion.

And then - cue the villain music - there was her.

This annoying woman, absolutely off her face, who decided that out of everyone on that dance floor, I was her chosen conversational victim.

She started asking me the dumbest questions imaginable - things like,

“Why are you laughing?”

and

“Why did your boyfriend bring a civilian to the rave?”

A civilian?!

Excuse me, darling, Cruella De Vil is many things - dramatic, fabulous, occasionally nauseous - but civilian is not one of them.

She’s lucky Cruella didn’t do what she’s famous for.

I politely told her to walk away (because I’m classy like that), but instead she stood there, wobbling, almost poking my face with her talon-length fake nails.

Some people, honestly!

I swear I could feel my wig bristling with rage.

I had to take a deep breath, channel my inner house goddess, and mentally count to ten before I ended up on the news: “Cruella De Vil mauls partygoer with a glow stick.”

Anyway, she eventually drifted off to harass someone else (hopefully Beetlejuice), and peace was restored on the dance floor.

The Dance Marathon:

We danced from 3PM until nearly 10PM.

Seven hours of pure rhythm, lights, laughter, and moments of, “Wait, is this song still going or did my brain glitch?”

At one point, a man dressed as Beetlejuice tried to spin me around mid-song - which sounds fun until you realise I was mostly trying to stop my wig from flying off and scalping someone.

Behind us, a group of bloody surgeons were performing what looked like CPR on a rubber arm, while a possessed nun next to the bar was sipping a gin and tonic like the devil’s PA.

A Michael Myers casually two-stepped near the DJ booth, a dead Barbie kept adjusting her tiara, and a vampire DJ dropped “Lola’s Theme” and had the entire dance floor howling.

The vibes were immaculate.

My stomach, shockingly, cooperated for most of it.

But then came the McDonald’s decision.

Oh, the infamous post-rave McDonald’s - the great equaliser of all bad decisions.

I hadn’t eaten all day, so naturally, I went for chicken selects.

Three of them.

On the train.

Inhaled.

Gone.

No hesitation.

And then… instant regret.

By the time we stepped off the train, my stomach declared war.

Those three chicken selects were politely but firmly evicted into the bushes by the station.

Classy as ever.

Thanks Mounjaro!

I love you too!

If anyone nearby heard the sound, I can only hope they assumed it was part of a Halloween haunted soundscape.

Thank God for Polo mints - the unsung hero of the gastrointestinal battlefield.

I blamed the two drinks, not the chicken.

(Denial: it’s not just a river in Egypt, it’s a coping mechanism.)

Home.

Bed.

Redemption.

Felt much better after that little purge.

Cruella restored.

Sunday – The Comedown of a Civilian that apparently should not have been at the party:

Sunday can only be described as a horizontal experience.

I did nothing.

Nada.

Stayed in bed like it was a competitive sport.

Netflix and napping were my co-workers.

Stomach?

Still a disaster.

Gastroparesis was back in full diva mode, but at least there was no retching. Small mercies, people.

Breakfast: toast.

Lunch/dinner/therapy: Freya’s homemade bone chicken broth with peas, some chicken pieces, and wholemeal noodles - basically, the warm hug my digestive system didn’t deserve but needed.

Followed by approximately five herbal teas because apparently, I think I’m a monk now.

The guts, however, were still “all over the shop.”

(Literally. I think one part of my intestine was still dancing with Beetlejuice.)

And because I was feeling fragile, I entered the most dangerous zone of all - the Netflix rabbit hole.

Hours passed in a blur of Swedish accents and reality TV awkwardness.

Yes, you heard right - I watched Swedish Love Is Blind, complete with English voiceover because, let’s be honest, I barely manage English some days, let alone Swedish.

I sat there, wrapped in my blanket, sipping herbal tea and shouting things like,

“NO, STINA! HE’S LYING! HIS EYES SAY IKEA BUT HIS HEART SAYS MEATBALLS!”

Honestly, the English dub made everyone sound like they were auditioning for a soap opera.

Ten out of ten, would recommend if your brain is mush and your stomach is plotting revenge.

By evening, my boyfriend finally emerged from his man cave, blinking like a vampire seeing sunlight, and announced, “Pizza?”

Of course he did.

I had two slices.

TWO.

And instantly regretted them.

But hey, progress - I wasn’t sick! Another tick in the “tiny victories” column.

By 6PM, I was back in bed, remote in hand, absolutely comatose.

I briefly considered watching another episode of Love Is Blind: Sweden - but my eyes gave up before my willpower did.

Set my alarm for 5AM (because apparently, I have a job and not a rave career) and passed out faster than you can say “chicken selects.”

Overall verdict?

A brilliant weekend - chaos, comedy, and Cruella couture all rolled into one.

So many laughs, so many memories, and one very angry stomach.

Would I do it again?

Absolutely.

Would my digestive system agree?

Absolutely not.

But life’s short.

Eat the toast.

Wear the wig.

Vomit in style.

Next stop: NYE.

Cruella might just rise again… and this time, she’s bringing the Dalmatian, a backup witch, a zombie DJ, and the ghost of a chicken select.

The outfit?

Oh, it’ll be SPARKLY.

Like, blind-your-neighbours, reflect-satellite-signals sparkly.

And yes - there’ll be a house afterparty.

Because apparently, I’ve learned nothing at all… and I can’t wait.

Hopefully nobody will be waving their hands and fake nails in my face and trying to provoke a civilian and a genuinely lovely girl!

With Love and Mushed Brain,

JABatha Christie