Brains, Booze & Betrayal

New Year’s Eve. That magical night when the world collectively agrees to dress in sequins, drink like prohibition ends at midnight, and make wildly unrealistic resolutions we’ll abandon by the 3rd of January (if we’re lucky).

So picture this: me, fresh-faced and a heart full of optimism (and probably a hip flask), headed out on the town with my cousin – blonde, blue-eyed stunner, and someone I’d describe as having “morals best viewed in low lighting.”

Now, let me be clear. I wasn’t out that night to sip sparkling water and talk about my five-year plan. No. I was on a mission. Operation: Smooch. And oh, did I commit. We’re talking lips-on-tour. North, South, East, West – I was basically a kissing compass. My cousin? She found a guy. A keeper, apparently, as they went on to date for years.

Then came the moment. We’re at the bar, two older blokes swagger over like they’ve just wandered out of a Guy Ritchie film and go:“Let me guess… which one of you has the brains?”

Now, I’ve never fancied myself a supermodel – I mean, I don’t shatter mirrors, but I’m not exactly crashing Victoria’s Secret runways either. So when they said that, I felt the sting. Like, am I the designated ‘smart’ one just because I’m standing next to someone who looks like Barbie on a beach holiday?

My cousin, without missing a beat, goes: “She has the brains.”Cue: laughter from the two Don Draper rejects.Cue: internal screaming.

Still, I let it slide. We had partying to do and people to kiss. The night marched on – the ball dropped, I found another random to snog (honestly, might’ve kissed the DJ at this point, who’s to say?), and decided we weren’t quite done. I suggested we head to a club in town. Off we trotted – me, my cousin, and her new arm candy.

At the club? Kissed another guy. Vomited (gracefully, I’m sure) in the street. Called it a night.

I woke up the next morning on my cousin’s sofa with a hangover that felt like my brain had tried to escape through my ears. You know the kind – when even water tastes like regret and shame.

Fast-forward a few months, and life had more or less returned to normal. My cousin was still dating her NYE Romeo. Things were calm. Until – and here’s where it gets juicy – I get a text from my mum.

Now, for context: my mother is the kind of woman who thinks wine gums are a slippery slope. Raised by alcoholics, she’s all virtue and vinegar. I’d always carefully edited my stories for her – you know, replaced “vodka shots” with “catching up with friends” and “clubbing in Soho” with “a quiet night in.”

So you can imagine my horror when I received a message from her that went something like:“Your cousin and her boyfriend visited. They told me about your crazy New Year’s antics.

Panic.Sweat.Mouth suddenly drier than the Sahara.

I was mortified. Why had they gone all the way to my mum’s place to spill every drop of tea – every embarrassing, messy, mother-shaming detail? It felt like betrayal with a side of smug.

I texted my cousin, full of fury. We ended up in a fight that ended our relationship for two years. She couldn’t understand the big deal. Said – and I quote – “If you’re so concerned about what your mother thinks, maybe you shouldn’t behave that way.”

Excuse me? Coming from someone who got pregnant at 16? I mean – people in glass houses shouldn’t throw flaming grenades.

Looking back, maybe she didn’t mean to hurt me. Maybe she just thought it was funny. But it wasn’t her story to tell – not to my mum, not in that way.

We’ve since patched things up (sort of – with that weird, politeness where everything’s technically fine but still a bit awkward), but that night? That story? It lives rent-free in my head. It’s a cautionary tale wrapped in glitter and regret.

So, what’s the moral of the story? Maybe it’s: don’t kiss half of the party on NYE. Maybe it’s: don’t let people who don’t get the full picture narrate your life. Or maybe it’s just: always pack mints, wear shoes you can run in, and never, ever trust a cousin with a memory like a vault and a tongue like a megaphone.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got another story to tell – Stay tuned.