curry brick

On Sunday night, that night being a bank holiday night, a rare night when one can get completely and utterly off their face, I mean cock-fighting drunk (which is where you fight your own cock) be sick on your chest out of it, wake up in cells, fucked and covered in blood… I abstained. Having said that I spent much of Friday and Saturday in a stupor.

Friday was one of the best, a classic piqued night in/out, beginning in the pub with Frank for a few that ultimately wound up with me lurching at piles of CD’s in the wee hours, headphones clamped round my red chortling face, eyes moist from being clobbered about the head with whatever rock-based delights tickled my fancy. Sensational.

I awoke on Saturday feeling surprisingly well; this was actually rather odd because I’d pushed the boat out until it reached Calais, frankly. Still, Saturday wasn’t exactly an energetic one. It was warm and sunny, I had to get to the shops to get my mum and my brothers missus cards and gifts and shit –it occurred to at the same time I might be able to pick up a new PS2 controller to play Scarface, as recommended by Swineshead… I lazily made my way through a flabby white-fleshed south London, rubbing shoulders with behemoth gold-hooped teen mothers, dodging fried chicken eating groups of livid youngsters, the prams of the former, the broken dreams of the latter before a near aneurysm in fucking Argos trying to order a game accessory.

I hate Argos, I hate the people that work there, the people that shop there, the huge catalogues with a million things, 999,999 of which you don’t want and the little blue pens required to note the gargantuan item number after it’s been located from plastic encapsulated pages, the way said number appears on that fucking screen and hovers about before a cheery computerised female voice calls you to stand waiting for one of the dead-eyed gum-chewing shop assistants to flatly ignore you as one hops from one foot to the other, thrusting forward a curled white ticket as your item sits giggling out of reach on the sparsely occupied shelving behind them. But when you’re finally served, the moment the ticket stamp clicks over the receipt and the precious object of desire is placed in ones hand, the empiric sense of victory is overwhelming. Item purchased! I skip out loving the world.

The rest of the afternoon was written off on the game, I only stopped playing because I had an appointment in the local with Harry, Frank and his missus with guest appearance by James. We sat in the beer garden as the evening gave way to dusk then nightime chatting away and drinking steadily. James and Henry and I took ourselves off for a curry (perfectly ordered this time, just the right amount of food and heat) and afterwards James came back to my flat for a final can and speechless laughter before offing himself into the cool night air. For the second time in a row the headphones found their way round my brain, I think I went to bed at 4?

Sunday lunchtime, I’m dressed head to toe in black leather boarding the black bitch to ride to my folks. It was the first hot fast day of the year, the bike was as happy as I and we shot out of London. Possessed.

I arrived in time for lunch, the rest of the family were already there, my bro and his missus, my sister and bro-in-law, niece (now sort of talking) and parents. We ate fisherman’s pie amid the usually clatter of conversation and wise cracks, gifts were exchanged, photos of the Christening passed around (save the one of me and my bro stood in front of the alter pulling devils horns –not one for the folks that) and spent the afternoon nattering and playing with my niece who was in a most congenial frame of mind.

I arrived home by 5 following some hero antics on the bitch and I got back into the game almost as soon as my helmet was off. Apart from the odd break to catch snatches of movies on the TV, Spiderman 2, Desperado, the evening was given over to fucking Scarface, no drinking, the odd spliff and Scarface, Scarface until 3am if you please. Scarface.

My clear head on Sunday was in stark contrast to the previous 2 days, I had some tea, washed some clothes, shat and showered and headed off to the tube at midday to meet up with Harry and Frank and arrived on Brick Lane an hour later.

The Bank Holiday atmosphere and warm sunny weather created a lovely atmosphere, the trendy scruffs, piss pots and knowing artytypes mingled with purveyors and staff of some of the countries finest curry houses. We moved up to the Vibe Bar and were joined by Den, Ray their 3 year old who is a streak of delight and O, fresh back from Afghanistan –if I say any more on this matter I’ll have to kill you, and he’ll do your family- where we all sat outside sipping cold beer and engaged in deep and meaningfuls, well, a lighter version of.

Following this we took a walk to the Lahore Kebeb House, reputed to be one of the finest curry houses in the UK and completely pigged out. I’ve not eaten that much meat in a month but for the fucking life of me I can’t recall anything that tasted as good –disgraceful as it may be (I was a veggie for a decade so eating meat still comes with that twinge of shame, like smashing a prostitute over the head with a hammer, you enjoy it at the time but after can’t help feeling just that little bit remorseful) it was wholly worth it and as the restaurant is Muslim-owned and doesn’t hold a licence it was remarkably cheap.

We waddled back to Brick Lane were we resumed drinking in the late afternoon, friends melted away leaving Henry, O and I to enjoy the melee outside The Big Chill Bar, or something, heaving with cunts it was, still happily drinking away. Early in the evening we were joined by IC fresh from a weekend in Italy and we had a few more before the latter and I popped off to Hackney.

It’s another gorgeous day actually, warmer than the last and I really don’t thank the powers that be for making me have to work. In fact I blame fucking Boris…