I made a half arsed attempt to not go to the pub last night. I’d been discussing the possibilities with my mate from up the road by text but nothing was fixed. By 7.30 I’d decided, irrespective of his decision to go up the road with his missus that I would be good and stay in. I blew him out by text ‘going to stay in tonight mate’ he replied ‘Sure? We’re just setting off…’ and my willpower went out the window, it doesn’t take much. However, I didn’t spend too long there as I wasn’t feeling that good opting instead to return home, lazily cook corned beef hash and have a few glasses of Beaujolais in front of the TV. Danny Devito’s role In War of the Roses I hasten to add is a triumph…
Earlier in the day the hangover from Friday night had reduced me to crawling pace, nasty vicious spiteful fucker it was, caused by a numerous variety of boozes with every single one conspiring against me. I had woken late, sweating like a freshly convicted nonce with my stomach filled with hellish liquids that really would’ve been better jettisoned. Being sick in the morning is for birds what are knocked up the duff, so I grimly clung on, sensibly establishing that it was food I needed. After a bath I made bacon and eggs on autopilot, which is a shame because lately I’ve taken to poaching the eggs in the traditional manner of swirling boiling water in a pan and plopping the egg in the vortex, it’s never really been a 100% successful until yesterday and can’t remember exactly what I did, but I do know I employed ‘other’. The eating had the desired results and I began to ponder the matter of the dreadful weekly shop to the hypermarket. In the bath earlier I’d vetoed the project but as I was beginning to recover I made the decision to give it a shot.
I listened to the Saturday play on the radio (it was a beauty, ladies and gentlemen, 2.30pm every Saturday, try it…) managing to smoke a cigarette without my brains spinning like a jumble sale blender and tentatively set off. I arrived, parked, recycled some glass and shit and went up the escalator to the cathedral of consumerism. This place is roughly the size of two football pitches –why on earth I am using ‘football pitches’ as a yardstick I’ve no idea, it’s a sport that is played and watched by queers- and it was fucking rammed with cunts, families of cunts, single lonely cunts, fat cunts, thin cunts and, of course, retard cunts, the latter being the worst by far. From the outset I was struggling to maintain calm, panic was sat crouched a few inches below my throat restricting my breathing, focussing on the task in hand relieved the fear but mid way through the shop a screaming cunting child set me off. Abandoning my trolley I lurched towards the toilets. After ten minutes of face-splashing and cradling my head in my hands in a cubicle I returned to the store. My trolley was as I’d left it and I continued as if nothing had happened.
Mission accomplished, I returned home and unpacked, cut the lilies and read the paper, still feeling decidedly less than well I contemplated the pub and recalled the previous evenings events that had caused my malaise. After leaving work I got a lift to this fucking awful cocktail bar in Wimbledon with some work colleagues. I despise Wimbledon; apart from the very, very occasional exception I don’t think I’ve seen a single pretty face in a decade of passing through it to work. It’s such a vacuous little town, insular, pathetic and here I was involved with post-work chitchat with those I work with in a dimly-lit cack hole. After a couple of pints (I spurred the overpriced luminous swill in idiot goblets) I was actually starting to relax, but not sufficiently to give up on a drink at my local with my mate from up the road who’d unexpectedly found himself at a loose end, and my very old friend with whom I’d spent a long night a few weeks ago. We three drunk well and my old friend and I decided, foolishly, to continue our conversation in my flat. I grabbed a fresh pizza and some wine from bloody Tesco and we came back, both of us the worse for wear but determined to enjoy just one more. Typically, the conversations refused to show any signs of slowing, the wine was drunk, then G&T’s, then whisky and ginger, then I had a full on white-out. It was one of those nasties where ones overweight head fills as if it’s made of solid brass until moved, then it takes on the quality of a slopping bladder of sour milk triggering the stomach to slowly rotate and pushing the contents of the bowel into the chest. Even after I recovered I persevered with my drink, the conversation still being lively though somewhat garbled and backed by a fucking brilliant soundtrack of early Hawkwind, Mark Lanagan, Velvet Underground and Nirvava, dear, dear Kurt. I’ve no idea what time my mate left, 4 maybe? And I don’t recollect what time I subsequently went to sleep, all I can tell you in that I’d almost poisoned myself and was deliriously happy.
As I write this its Sunday afternoon, 4-ish and I’ve just eaten Sunday lunch, roast chicken breast with streaky bacon, crispy roast Maris Piper potatoes, organic broccoli and a single, perfect, red onion and pork sausage. Jealous? Don’t be, it was alright. Following a bit of restoration in the bathroom I have one, splendid task to undertake before saying farewell to the weekend. My brother is back from his trip; I’ve not seen him for precisely 3 weeks, the longest I’ve not seen him since he was born and I am disproportionately excited. Incidentally, I’ve had 3 good shits today each one bearing forth at least 3 fat turds, making a grand total of 9. Can anyone beat that?