It’s a lovely day, proper spring weather, none of this winter bollocks. Late yesterday afternoon I met my bro and his missus in Clapham, it was still light when I passed the common, a beautiful end to the weekend if you will. En route to the boozer we bumped into one of the bar staff, a smashing fellow who always ensures my bro and I are treated exceptionally well (free beer). We were warned that our destination was rammed solid, unusual for a Sunday but a pretty typical reaction to the clement weather. The marvellous barman arranged for the three of us to have a private table up on the balcony overlooking the beer garden and common. It wasn’t warm sat up there, but it was sunny and fresh and marked the beginning of the summer to come, I declared in my own head.
What on earth I was doing anywhere near a pub is a fucking mystery. I’d earlier been forced to turn down an offer by my mate from up the road and his missus for a quick pint in the afternoon choosing instead to return to bed. I woke an hour or so later to the sound of a text from my brother asking to meet up at 5. Feeling a bit better I accepted the offer. I ate some fucking expensive duck pate on toast, my appetite was non-existent but I was more than aware that no food + booze = vomit, then took the tube up to Clapham. It was a very bad journey, I was sat sweating and shaking gasping for air for its duration and on at least two occasions nearly made the decision to bail and opt for a bus or a cab.
Up on the balcony we had a splendid chat as the sun and temperature went down and after a couple of pints and a whisky, my brother and his good lady departed to some eatery or other leaving me alone with the evening. I’d already planned it round a documentary on BBC2 by the BAFTA award winning filmmaker Adam Curtis…last nights was the first of a new series (I’m not going to harp on about it, just make sure you watch It) so I had a bath (made myself fucking deaf for 30 minutes) and ate a fantastic burger which was so good I got a heavy dick.
At about 10 something rather peculiar occurred. I found myself stood in the middle of the lounge trying to work out what was ‘wrong’. Something wasn’t right, or rather, there was something ‘unusual’…I tried to shake off this persistent request by my mind to investigate this oddity, and was just about to give up when it occurred to me that I’d not heard a peep from Cunt. Nothing. In fact since Thursday I’d neither seen his obsequious little grin nor suffered the horrific nasal wailing that accompanied his futile attempts to wring coherent sound out of his little instrument.
There had been activity downstairs, I’d seen and heard the odd tradesman but the background of Cunt had been absent, no false laugh or the moronic tones as he imposed himself on anything with a face, no fucking slamming of doors because he’s the same motor skills as a Gibbon, nothing whatsoever to indicate he was downstairs at all, he might be dead! Nah, couldn’t be that, the workman would’ve found him. Shit.
Still, the realisation he wasn’t there gave me a second wind, a new lease of life. I cracked opened a bottle of wine and put my feet up. It’s been a good weekend I mused; I toasted myself, rolled a joint the size of my forefinger and put on some Ramones, at volume.