Geordie - Shore

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. Geordie Shore

Wet wipes and empty bottles of CÎROC COCONUT WATER litter the floor. James picks up the traffic cone and hurls it across the room

RIGHT. WHO PUT A FIREWORK IN MY BEDROOM TOILET? I’VE GOT GLITTER IN PLACES GLITTER SHOULD NEVER BE

James grabs a bottle of vodka from the freezer. It’s 9:14 AM. He unscrews the cap.

THE SCENE OPENS. The living room looks like a bomb hit a fancy dress shop and a kebab shop at the same time. A single, sad high heel lies on its side. A traffic cone is inexplicably on the coffee table. Confetti is stuck to everything.

(Finally standing up, wobbling) THAT’S THE SPIRIT! GEORDIE SHORE, BABY! WE DON’T DO HANGOVERS. WE DO TOP-UPS.