Temu Paul Mescal & The Tree

A few years ago, my teammates and I set off to the hallowed halls of Cambridge—not for scholarly pursuits or secret societies, but for a tournament that somehow turned into a rom-com directed by a hungover gremlin.

Now, as tradition (and poor decision-making) dictates, once the games wrapped, we dove headfirst into the real competition: drinking. And let me tell you, the drinks were flowing like we’d just won the World Cup (we hadn’t). Cue me, glass in hand, scanning the room like a tipsy meerkat for any man with a pulse. When I drink, I flirt. It’s practically Pavlovian.

Enter: two cute guys. One of them, sweet baby angel, was about ten years my junior—probably still remembered his GCSE results—and had the energy of a Labrador and the face of Paul Mescal... if you squinted... hard... and ordered him off Temu. But we vibed. Hard. There was banter. There was chemistry. There was snogging—sloppy, spectacular snogging—right in front of everyone, as if we were the final scene of a Netflix original. Classy.

Just as things were heating up, Prince Budget-Mescal declared it was midnight and he had to catch the last train to London. The horror! I wasn’t having it. I slurred, “don’t be daft, just crash with us!” As if I wasn’t staying in a shoebox hostel room with six of my teammates like a fresher on a budget.

But did I consider logistics? Personal boundaries? The size of the bed? Of course not. So off we staggered through the cobbled streets of Cambridge like two drunk reindeer, somehow (miraculously) making it back to the hostel without falling into the River Cam.

We stumbled into my shared room and climbed into a bunk bed that was more suitable for a small child than two inebriated adults attempting activities. It was chaotic, it was cramped, it was… something. And then—mercifully—sleep.

The next morning, I woke with the kind of hangover that makes you swear off alcohol and all joy. As I slowly peeled one eye open, I noticed two things:

1. There was no one else in the room.

2. There was a literal tree in the doorway.

Yes. A. TREE.

At first, I chalked it up to hangover hallucinations, but no. A full-blown, leafy, oversized branch-y situation. And next to me, Paul Temu-Mescal, looking slightly less charming in the cold, sober light of day. But hey—when in Rome.

After round two (don’t judge, we’d started it, might as well finish), I eventually reunited with my teammates, all of whom looked at me like I’d personally burned their sleeping bags. Turns out, I had accidentally commandeered the entire room with my late-night guest, and they’d all squeezed into another room like a pack of disgruntled sardines. And the tree? Oh, that was strategically placed in the doorway by my teammates to “keep an eye on me.” Like a budget surveillance system from B&Q.

Reader, they were not amused.

Safe to say, I was in the dog house for what felt like an eternity. Banished. Scolded. Publicly mocked for treegate and the Temu snog. And yet… no regrets. (Well, maybe the tree bit. That was unsettling.)

Would I do it again? Probably not. But will I dine out on this story until I’m 90 and living in a bungalow with cats and gin? Absolutely.

So, moral of the story? Don’t flirt like you’re in a music video, bunk beds are not made for two, and never underestimate your teammates’ dedication to botanical espionage.

Until next time, darlings. Keep it messy, keep it merry, and watch out for shrubbery.

🌿💋🍻

Want more tales of mild chaos and questionable life choices? Stick around. I’ve got stories for days.