100 and after

The alarm went off again, I was dimly aware of it having deployed earlier, maybe, but this time it went off I tried to focus on the cloudy red digital display that gradually converged into a recognisable time… it was 9.48, the train for Scarborough set off at 10.45 from King’s Cross, I did some mental maths whilst my stomach churned slowly over, ‘yes,’ I thought, ‘unless we leave NOW…’ My friend (with tits) was soundly asleep next to me, I tried to wake her but the most dreadful frown creased her forehead, ‘we gotta go’, I said breathlessly, a panic developing in my neck, ‘NOW, WE GOTTA FUCKING GO’. Unsurprisingly the ‘I’m not fucking going anywhere,’ whispered in response did little to assist my fear, after a full minute of quite pathetic pleading and, I’m ashamed to say, emotional blackmail. My friend (w.t.) arose, the frown was of such intensity she resembled The Borg as she shoved passed me to the bathroom, 9.54, it was going to be close but we could do it. We hastily dressed, grabbed the pre-packed bags and shoved them into her car. The idea was to move the car to a space in south London where they don’t have resident parking restrictions, the road parallel but one was such a place, it was near the tube and…we arrived, the brand new residents permits signs and ticket machine signalled disaster, it was 10.08, we were fucked.

The previous evening I’d met up with my brother in the boozer in Clapham we usually enjoy on Sunday, Swineshead popped by for a couple but my bro and I managed a healthy 4, plus a quick squirt of scotch to see us on our way. At some point in the pub my friend wt had called to say she was in my flat. I suggested that she took a bath and by the time she’d got ready I’d be back with wine and pizza. I got back at 9-ish, she’d prepared for tomorrow sorted herself with a few G&T’s so I made some food and we opened the wine. All was going swimmingly until I suggested we watch a bit of YouTube. For nearly 6 hours we indulged in a rigorous session of selection/clicking, drinking and, at times, intensely heavy conversation that was both devastating and optimistic. By the time we went to bed I noticed that there was one glass with maybe 2 fingers of wine left, the rest had been drunk. Not the smartest move in the world…

‘I’ll drive’, she said. I looked at her face, her large dark glasses concealed the worst of the noticeable damage, we agreed to go a Starbucks to get some coffee and food before we set off. Under the illusion that both of us we were ‘feeling better’ we pointed the car in the direction of up t’North and set off. The traffic was dreadful and our moods matched but after a shouting match and a fit of the giggles we both settled into the journey ahead. After 2 hours we cleared North London and launched on to the M1, up until this point things had been okay.

After 10 minutes on the M1 my friendwt became very quiet. Unless pissed off about something this wasn’t like her at all, and she wasn’t. ‘You alright Myfwt?’ I asked, ‘I feel sick P, in fact I’ve got to stop at the next services in order to ventilate my stomach.’ This worried me, I didn’t want her to feel sick and being a fairly new driver I was already aware of the pressure she was under to undertake such a whacking journey. I too wasn’t feeling great, despite already having smoking 3 cigarettes the thought of even looking at one now was enough to open the back of my throat.

We stopped off at a service station, Myfwt nipped off to the loo and half an hour later she returned looking pale and wane, ‘feeling better?’ I enquired gently, ‘a bit, enough to press on’. We got some more food for the road ahead and set off again. A short while later I had the most awful panic attack, it was of such intensity that I was unable to apply my usual process of enforced logic into the equation, it wholly refused to lose it’s grip, Myfwt was getting nervous but not as nervous as I, I don’t recall having a panic with such strength and certainly not for such a protracted period of time. I was simply unable to grab enough oxygen so I sat on the front seat gasping like Albert Steptoe following a 100 Yard dash and quite suddenly, and very unusually, I let out a burp that would’ve upset the Undead and threw up.

I managed to grab a Starbucks coffee cup in the nick of time so I didn’t make too much of a mess but I was dimly aware of the occupants of passing vehicles pointing at a white-faced yob ejecting poison from his jutting lower jaw. Myfwt rubbed my back as she heroically drove on and shortly I’d settled down, the panic swilling around in the coffee cup and dribbling down my fingers.

We slowly settled down into the journey, it was a beautiful warm day, perhaps a little too warm for the drive and the condition of the passengers but, at least, not raining or foggy. At the same time we both became dangerously soporific, I was actually starting to dream with my eyes fluttering on the edge of unconsciousness, for the sake of my driver I remained awake but at a service station near Nottingham we parked up and slept for 30 minutes. By now it was getting late, we’d already missed high tea at the hotel but were on target for dinner, maybe a drink beforehand…

We pressed on, by now we were both beginning to enjoy the journey, the beautiful scenery as we hit Yorkshire, the glare of oil see rape, fat crows, rooks, gorse and endless communities of tress was enough for both of us to independently remark on how wonderful it was to be outside of London, or any city for that matter. At about 6.15pm we arrived at the hotel in Scarborough located on the cliff of the North Bay overlooking the sea. Hastily we unpacked, showered, changed and met the family in the large lounge by the bar.

There were about 40 of us in total, my parents, auntie’s, uncles, cousins, nieces, nephews and extended family, some of which I’d never met, and in the middle of it all, granddad, 100 years old and a day, not looking a day over 70. Apart from having a few issues with eyesight he’s a sharp as a nail. I felt a deep sense of pride. Myfwt and I hastily greeted as many family members as we could, everyone knew of our journey problems as I’d been in regular contact with my bro and my mum so conversation was anything but stifled.

The hotel itself was akin to a smaller English version of The Overlook hotel, it was an anachronism, a functioning time warp but pleasant enough, faded opulence mixed with gaudy fixtures and fittings strained the eye, yet it was comfortable and the staff friendly and weird in equal measures. The food was basic but fresh, quite delicious in hindsight and following pudding my granddad gave a reminiscent speech peppered with risqué jokes whilst a passing reveller dressed in a wig and a dress pressed his genitals against the glass outside.

We took our drinks back to the lounge and carried on drinking as guests slowly retired to their rooms. Finally, at about 2am there were 5 of us, my cousin and his wife, another cousin who’d I never met before and Myfwt. We chatted about families, pharmaceuticals, fashion and ordered more wines and whiskies, then a platter of sandwiches to stave off the inevitable hangover. At around 4 am we staggered off to our respective rooms and before my head hit the pillow I was out like the proverbial light.

Myfwt and I skipped breakfast; we were late surfacing from the pit but arrived in time to hear my grandfather provide history on the family, from the stowaway Jewish German boy that was my great, great grandfather to the wife beater that was my great grandfather and finally some tales of the early life of my grandfather from Burma to my grandmother and his illustrious career that led to his short friendship with Winston Churchill. Before leaving for London Myfwt and I walked down the cliff to visit the vast array of amusement arcades that faced the beach. I’d not been there since I was a boy and was surprised to find that many of the 1 and 2p slot machines I played 30 years ago were still in operation, and just as fascinating, but for slightly different reasons. The seafront was packed with families, ice cream, inexpensive tat, rock, candies, hot dogs… everything that a seaside town can offer without a hint of irony or self deprecation…truly wonderful and aside from the odd cluster of tearaways maintains an innocence and charm about it almost too obscure to adequately put into words in such a short period of time.

We went back to the hotel, grabbed our already packed luggage and, before wishing those that remained a fond farewell, left for home at 1pm. The journey back wasn’t dissimilar to the one there, but there was no sign of the desire to puke or panic. The pressure to not arrive anywhere at a specific time was a blessing and as soon as we left the coast the sun yawned through the clouds until the sky was a deep blue.

Due to the weather and the splendid roads Yorkshire was packed full of bikers, it certainly made the journey back a lot more interesting than the one down, though a little frustrating as I wanted to be one of the pack. We bought food from service stations along the way and in one godforsaken place near Northampton Myfwt took a well-deserved nap as I smoked staring at the poor bastards about to board a National Express coach. We passed Silverstone at almost the exact time the crowds that had been attending the British Superbike championships were leaving for home. Utter joy as hundreds of machines screamed past in both directions, I clapped like a wanker, the hairs on the back of neck sat erect as fat groups of heroes wuzzed by.

The final part of the journey was exhausting, both of us were having problems staying awake but after nearly 6 hours we arrived back at the flat following a short visit to get some soup and wine from Tesco. I ran Myfwt a bath whilst I sorted supper, by now it was nearly 9, we ate in front of the TV both of us quite subdued, speaking for myself I was feeling melancholy due the passing of a splendid weekend and a few other matters not for here. I decided not to drink any wine, despite the desire to do so.

Seeing Frank this evening, something pleasant to focus on, which is just as well because I’m feeling less than happy sat here at work. I’ve also noticed that I’ve managed to write quite a few words without swearing much, surely that’s a fucking first…

Happy Birthday Pop.

1 day before 100

Yesterday afternoon crawled past, the prior evenings festivities gradually faded away as I sat at the fucking desk trying to connect to my workload. After an age it was time to leave, I jumped on the Triumph in the pissing rain and arrived home relatively unscathed, the shower had past by mid trip and the spring breeze had seen to the subsequent damp.

Sadly, it wasn’t just me that had noticed the passing of the clouds, after parking up my bike and covering it over with the canvas, the fucking front door began to open and my heart sank to the soles of my feet. Cunt’s fucking idiot head appeared, baseball hated up, big black cheap sunglasses and an expression you may see on a masturbating primate. Behind him his cadaverous partner dragging a perfectly silent blank faced infant locked down in its buggy. I made the necessary pleasantries as my mind screamed ‘escape’.

Cunt said something incomprehensible whilst I poked at his daughter’s cheek in order for it to react with a fundamental emotion. It looked at me as if I were unpleasant food. I weakly asked Cunt to repeat his question; it was ‘are they Armani?’ Bit like asking Ghandi if his sandals are Jimmy Choo. He was referring to my dark glasses, ‘No’ I replied, managing to get past the entire family in under 30seconds, nodding inanely as the bastard conversation was twisted in my favour culminating in an outstretched arm bearing a single key to freedom.

I met up with my mate from up the road, (heron known as Frank to inject some personality into my mutterings). Frank and I drunk Spitfire and discussed families, his partners father had just died and was having to deal with the aftermath which was, as one would expect, calamitous. Frank was doing a good job, however, and the relationship had taken a more positive step through a duty of care. After a few pints he and I shuffled off to our relative flats, I passed by Tesco to grab some basic items and arrived back home in time for a bath before House, which I’m oddly addicted to. I’m not a massive fan of American TV (apart from Family Guy) but for some reason this pulls my chain.

After a supper of broccoli and sausages baked in a cheese and onion sauce I flaked out in front of the Snooker but was forced to retire shortly after, shattered.

I couldn’t be arsed to cycle in the morning so I took the Triumph. The office is half empty and someone is trying to fucking sue me for ‘breach of contract’ which could only be the case if he or I were so fucking stupid Cunt could beat the other at Snap.

Meeting up with friends tonight (including the one with tits) and preparing for a trip up North to celebrate my granddad’s 100th birthday over the weekend… It should be a good one so tune in on Monday to see how pissed I got.

Oh, today’s tune, don’t fucking turn this off because you don’t like the look of the beginning, deal with it, one of the best bands in the world. If you don’t like it now try it after a few wines.

Ladies and gentlemen, pray silence please…

late/never

Yesterday evening following a pretty hectic day at work I climbed into my bosses Volvo, a work colleague/friend and the bosses wife joined us and we pootled off to town as we had to attended the launch of a large music event that takes place over the summer.

Suited and booted as per instruction we were all in fairly high spirits, largely down to the forthcoming hospitality. About 10 minutes away from out destination I got a call from my mate in NYC inviting me on a fully paid up trip to The Cannes Film Festival. At first I didn’t think I’d be able to make it on account of my mum’s retirement bash but the (dates don’t coincide as it turns out) real issue was that my boss heard the call and vetoed the trip on the grounds that the dates would prevent me from meeting a fucking deadline.

Needless to say I’m less than impressed by this directive and am trying to figure out a way round it…

We arrived at the venue, free champagne and wine with little fucking pointless canapés being handed about by shy pretty girls dressed in 20’s clobber was a boon. A speech was made and the mingling began. After a couple of hours my friend from work, her boyfriend, a music journo and I all slipped off to a friendly half empty boozer near Baker Street after meeting each other with the other handful of smokers outside. We drunk steadily, the banter was friendly and interesting and at some point later I found myself in a black cab on my way home.

I woke this morning feeling shit, aware that last night was essentially ‘work’ I stayed in bed until 11am before lazily getting dressed; clambering aboard my Triumph (the bicycle can get fucked) and arriving here about an hour ago.

This explains why today’s blog is both late and short, I need a fucking blood transfusion.

Lazy offing today and yes, I do like them so fuck off

piquedonory

I had a day off yesterday. At about 11am my friend (with tits) who was suffering an epic hangover popped by following last night’s drinks in the bar in Wandsworth. I made a sofa bed up which she flopped in after a small sick-up in the bathroom. After a few minutes of tlc I made her some spaghetti hoops on toast which served in some way to initiate basic recovery. Just before I was due to go to read to the kids she dozed off. I left her asleep on my sofa, grabbed my lid and left for school.

I arrived at my mate’s school at one pm, as arranged. I parked up the motorcycle under the scrutiny of 150 little people who stopped what they were doing and turned to face me. It was like the end scene from The Village of the Damned. Feeling slightly nervous I signed the visitors book and was directed to the staff room. I met some of the teachers and my mate took me to his classroom with a cup of tea. I was given some basic advice on how to conduct myself with regard to questions from the kids, how to inject some educational value into the reading with reference to words they might not get and to ensure they were thinking about possible plot options for the sake of retaining their attention.

After lunch the kids filed in, as expected, gawping at the new boy in the class who sat nervously chatting to the teacher clutching his 2-page story. The kids were between 8 and 9 and all manner of colour and shapes, the last time I’d seen so many kids of that age in one go I was one of them so I was rather surprised when it all felt oddly familiar. My mate slipped into his mode as a pro allowing his charges some degree of free expression as they recovered from their exuberant lunch break, but making it known that he was the gov’nor. (For those of you who know whom I’m talking about you should be dead proud of him).

After I was introduced to them my mate set them some tasks to be completed following my story. The classroom was arranged so they could sit in front of me, which they did, inches away from my face and I began my tale (which you can find on this website in March’s archive, I think, It’s called ‘Bill’s Midnight Feast’). It went down remarkably well; they seemed engaged, excited, even, and laughed at the poo and fart jokes accordingly. At one point they were required to pull the face of Bill needing to take a trog following the spontaneous expression pulled by a little girl at the front, they all heroically complied. I was rather taken with them actually and whilst wondering why on earth I wasn’t a teacher was given some background information on some of their home lives and remembered why. I couldn’t take the strain emotionally, they’re all so vulnerable and the thought of them being neglected or even physically harmed is too much to contemplate. I also acknowledged how lucky I was growing up. It was sobering stuff that I’m still digesting as I write this.

Following the story the kids were given sheets of paper with some simple questions about what they’d just been read. They were also asked to design a book cover for the story, which will be judged in the pub, probably. I suggested that a bar of chocolate would be an appropriate prize, the reaction from the kids was akin to informing Albert Steptoe he’d just won the Pools. Just before I left I saw some of the designs they’d come up with, seeing how their imaginations had responded to my tale indeed, just seeing my name in all manner of childish fonts was inspiring. So much so I’m going to try and write some more children’s stories…

After an hour and a half or so it was time to go, I said goodbye to the children who after some coercion from my mate noisily thanked me. A little mixed race girl escorted me out of the building, she was shy, polite and, as I’d discovered, troubled. Her mother was a drug addict and she’d regularly miss meals at home (she’d not had breakfast this morning) and was required to give up her bedroom when one of mummy’s numerous junkie friends crashed over. That’s why I couldn’t do the job my mate does, but for the sake of at least one part of infant community, you should be glad he doesn’t feel the same.

Early in the evening my friend (with tits) came over and crashed out in front of the TV whilst I popped to a pub to meet my schoolteacher mate. He’d brought all the kids’ post-story work in order for us to judge the competition winner. As it turned out the little girl that had escorted me out the school was the winner, but we had a fine time checking the drawings reading the reviews that ranged from the frankly bizarre to surprisingly adept. Oddly the basic plot for Bill’s next ‘adventure’ arrived on my walk to the pub yesterday evening.

After a few pints I bid my mate a fond farewell and slid off home. It was nice having my friend (w.t.) there when I arrived back, I made some supper (sausage, beans and mash, which seemed appropriate) and we squandered the rest of the evening in a most pleasant manner, chatting, smoking and in my case, the odd glass of Claret.

This morning, my friend (wt) gave me a lift to work as I have a fucking work-related function that requires me to wear a fucking whistle and I didn’t fancy public transport. I’m sat here looking as if I’ve just been released from Wandsworth nick and, as I type this, its not only Bill who needs a poo.

This one is for Joey, I saw this performed by this pop group on the day he died…

Turn it up

shorty

 

At about 3am this morning I decided I really should go to bed. Fucking YouTube had forced me into an addictive connection of music. Virtually everything I asked for popped up in some form or another leading on to more and more tempting avenues, really it’s worse than being an extra in Christiane F.

 

I’d had a pretty lazy Monday, I was still aware that I’d not had my full weekend quota of sleep so I lazily flopped about the office achieving enough to sustain my income. Physically I was aching from the weekend, the balls of my feet are wrecked though the Sunday am hurl, I suspect, was largely responsible for my malaise, despite this I heroically cycled to and from work.

 

I made dinner earlier than usual as I was expecting a visit from a friend, my first ever girlfriend in fact. I was a world weary 14 and she an experienced 13 year old when we met, we’ve been in touch ever since. She now lives in Switzerland because her partner is so loaded it’s more cost effective in terms of tax, so seeing her is somewhat of an event. She brought a bottle of wine over and we chatted over a glass before getting a taxi to a champagne bar near Wandsworth Common. Earlier in the evening my friend (with tits) invited me out to hook up with her and a work colleague, I’m afraid I imposed the trip on my visitor because I am particularly fond of my friend (w.tits.) and didn’t want to spurn an invitation, besides, I wanted to check out her (married with kids) work colleague as a bloke-bell had gone off (we do have them ladies, it’s not just you that get flap tingles when something doesn’t seem ‘right’). Not that I suspected anything untoward on her part I hasten to add.

 

We arrived in good time and the 4 of us chatted and drank steadily. My friend (w.t.) was a little squiffy but most certainly in good spirits; her work colleague and I made each other’s acquaintance whilst my visitor and my friend (w.t.) twittered away as birds do. They know each other of old which makes things so much more amicable. I was chatting to my friend (w.t.) colleague who seemed rather nervous about his newly acquired companions.

 

After regaling a story about a hard living friend of hers who’d attempted suicide by taking handfuls of pills, drinking almost 3 bottles of scotch and waking hung over free 3 days later, my visitor had to leave as she was due back to Switzerland the following morning, I saw her to her car and off she went into the night. It was lovely to see her, there is a chance she’ll be back in London for good shortly, we’ll see.

 

Short entry today as my friend (w.t.) is on her way over and this afternoon I’m reading the kids story I posted on here to a classroom of 8 year olds. I need to straighten up. But at least the hard work I put in researching today’s tune will be of some value, indeed, the next week is covered.

 

stags n’ trees

I woke Sunday morning; it was about 4 am in unfamiliar surroundings. My mind asked me a question. ‘Are you going to vomit, sir?’ It pondered briefly, ‘Erm, yes, yes I am…’ I had enough time to choose between the sink and the toilet; I opted for the former, with a polite hand to the mouth I cleared my throat and then expelled purple lumps in 3 dreadful 10-second sessions. Shortly after I returned to bed, still unsure as to where I was. It certainly wasn’t home.

On Friday following work I’d decided that I was going to have an early night, not drink wine and do a spot of packing. There was a chance that I would meet my mate from up the road but sadly, his missus’ father had just died and he was required to be on hand for obvious reasons. Being the OCD infused berk I’m capable of being, I arranged one essentially packed rucksack with a plastic bag inside containing the exact items I’d need to leave in the hotel when I arrived at tomorrows destination, the rest of the stuff I’d need on hand when walking in the countryside so keeping the bag light was a priority too. I was due to meet a couple of friends at Waterloo for a quarter to eight the following day so I duly set my alarm, checking to make sure it was loud enough to stir me from my pit, and settled down for the evening.

I woke Saturday morning sensing something wasn’t at all right. Like an utter cunt (with a spot of dyscalculia I hasten to add) I’d set the fucking alarm for 7.35am, not 6.35am as intended and flew into a full on panic. For the last few weeks a steady trickle of e-mails had arrived on my desktop keeping me fully informed of arrangements and schedules, the hotel and train tickets were booked, the party of 13 had been allocated various duties, if any, and all in all everyone was ready to go. Except for me. I was in my bedroom trying to understand how I’d been so fucking stupid, in need of a sedative. Suddenly a solution offered itself to me that was almost as annoying as magnificent. Why don’t I get on the bike and ride down there? Why hadn’t I considered that in the first place before spending 40 fucking lost quid on train tickets?

I had a quick cup of tea and made some toast and marmalade. The Doc Marten boots in the rucksack I’d packed for walking would be perfect for the bike ride; my jeans were adequate for the time of year so I wasn’t even required to pack anything else save a few related bike documents. I checked the route on the AA website, seemed straightforward enough, grabbed my lid and set off. I fuelled up and put some air in my tyres and 5 minutes later it was just the bike, the road and I. The weather was ideal, warm without being too hot, clear, bright and sunny and despite a few reservations on punctuality (we were all due to meet at the hotel at 11.30) and indeed my route, I felt quite calm. As soon as I got onto the A3 I started to enjoy myself, because it was still relatively early and the weekend traffic was sparse, and on account of my clear head and desire to get to my destination as soon as possible, I didn’t hang about.

For those who don’t ride a powerful motorcycle trying to describe the sensation of moving so quickly through the universe on a machine is quite hard. The air is clear in every possible direction, the merest movement has a direct consequence to the forces of gravity and ones physical response therein. It’s a sublime, delicate feeling of literal freedom as one balances on the cusp between joie de vivre and death. A3, M25, M3, I was making good time, I was cruising at 100mph occasionally taking it a little further when the conditions dictated. At Winchester services I made some adjustments to the rear chain and after encountering a fucking issue with the c-spanner that nearly required the services of the AA (for the second time that day) smoked a cigarette.

I set off for the last leg of the journey and stumbled across the destined hotel, located in the New Forest, in record time. Ignoring the problems with the rear chain, door to door, I’d made it in just over an hour. In fact I was the first person to arrive, ironically I thought.

Mostly in pairs the crew assembled at the hotel. Genuine pleasantries were exchanged, we checked-in and went directly to the nearest pub at midday, we pooled our cash and drank 4 pints of real ale. It was a great crowd, I knew most of them quite well and those I didn’t, I recognised with fondness. The stag himself had arrived with his dad and was full of beans, another of the crew had organised a walk through the New Forest taking in interesting aspects of our location as we went. It may seem like a strange thing to do for a stag weekend but it was a wonderful idea, I hadn’t walked in such a large group and in such stunning scenery for a decade, the weather was excellent, the company charming and everyone was a bit pissed to boot.

Among our group were a couple of wildlife buffs who we able to alert us Londoners to aspects of interests of worth, being spring the scenery was an explosion of colour and perfume, in addition to lively banter and chatter the going was good too, it was quite perfect, as I sit here in my flat writing this, dreamlike almost. That may have had something to do with the HSB too.

After a few miles we stopped for lunch at a traditional English Country pub in lovely surroundings. I had a fucking enormous lump of beer battered cod that was excellent by anyone’s standards and another 4 pints of real ale, I believe it was called ‘Landlord’, it was delicious. The booze had little effect on our pace; at least, I was unaware that it did. We rambled happily on though a decision was taken to curb the length of the walk, probably as a direct result of imbibing. Even now we’re all unsure how many miles we’d walked, between 4 and 7 seemed to be the general consensus, personally I think it was closer to the latter but I am from the city so don’t ask me. Anyway, by now things were getting a little vague. Someone suggested we return to the hotel to change for dinner…

Early in the evening we arrived at the final hostelry of the day. Another lovely traditional English pub with low wooden beams, a warm atmosphere and a carnivorous kitchen. Ales were slipped away and at some point I opted for a game pie for dinner, which was excellent, so good was it that it was finished off by friends whose meals hadn’t been to their satisfaction. Needless to say more drinking entered proceedings but by now having bonded with everyone the evening took on a life of it’s own, serious conversation mixed with trivia, jokes (mainly off colour) and for my stag pal and a few of the crew, darts. From where I sit now typing this I am left with the indelible vibe of a truly joyous evening, I don’t think Jesus himself would’ve been able to assemble a more congenial group of people. My only regret is to have stuck with my original intention of avoiding red wine after all those beers…

The jolly red-faced pissed landlord served us into midnight and then it was time to go. Sensibly the stag had already nipped off back to the hotel with his dad with a few of his crew. The remainder of us undertook the short walk back to the hotel with a magical bottle of wine and a few half full glasses. On arrival there were a couple of peroxide blondes, one big, one not so big but both as plain as wooden laminate watching television. One looked distinctly like Pat Butcher from Eastenders (A British TV soap opera) and someone, not sure who but I don’t think it was me, pointed this out. They left. We followed shortly as it was late and most definitely time for bed.

I was quite pleased I had thrown up on Sunday because my hangover wasn’t half as bad as by rights it should’ve been. But there was one snag, a fucking scary one at that. The puking had enflamed the back of my throat which meant it was almost impossible to swallow, subsequently I had a faultless panic attack and the only thing that prevented from me from calling the emergency services was applied logic. Still, I was so worried I wasn’t going to be able to eat without choking I avoided breakfast as even sipping water was problematic. It’s not 100% now but much better.

Some of the chaps had to get going for the station but a few of us, including our stag, checked out the Hotel and walked down the road to a field occupied by a few cows and horses, one of which had a cock the size of drainpipe and judging by his tumult tremulous condition, looked as if he was ready to use it. Mercifully he wondered off in search of a suitable orifice and we set up the wickets for a game of cricket. Being shit at sport and having a jot of back pain I hung about before making my excuses and leaving. After wishing everyone a fond farewell, especially the stag, I jumped back on my bike, filled up at a local gas station and shot off home.

The journey back was just as quick as the one there, and just as enjoyable, particularly as there were many bikes out in the sunshine and riders passed me with nods and the occasional wave. On the way back I stopped off at my parents, just in time for the motorcycle racing on TV. I sat watching it with dad while mum fussed about in the kitchen and garden. It was jolly nice to see them though I was happy to leave after a couple of hours to get back to the flat and take a well deserved bath.

Shortly I’m off to meet my bro and his missus at the usual boozer in Clapham, it’s a gorgeous evening and I’m sure will conclude the end to a wonderful weekend.

Congratulations Mr. Stag, looking forward to the big day.

(Oh, a mate has suggested that I use fake names in the blogs as, apparently, it’s getting hard to follow at times. I’ve thought about this and when necessary I will, thanks Harry)

Today’s Tube offing is a classic, nice vid too

getting my shit together

My evening begun in excellent circumstances. I mean even the tube journey to Clapham Common was acceptable. I was due to meet my bro in the pub at 6 but we arrived at the same time on the tube platform, we walked up the road in the warm evening sunshine to our pub of choice and, after waiting fucking hours to get served, discussed the matters of the day, namely Cho and his guns o’ doom.

The pub in question is frequented by those awful media types that hang out in hip clubs and bars at the weekend, actually, I’m not entirely sure why I like it, perhaps because the atmosphere is, despite being poncy, congenial and that the clientele are largely polite and, for want of a better word, respectful. Last night for example, following a few ales, I opened the cubicle door in the boozer loo with some force, in error, and smashed a chap right in the face. When I pulled the door back I’d actually managed to push his glasses up his nose slapstick style, without missing a beat he looked me squarely in the eye and said’ sorry’.

I arrived home before 9 pm in reasonable spirits, I wanted to watch that programme about a nonce on channel 4 which I’ve reveiwed in Watch With Mothers (link right, just there look—>) and in order to do that I had prepare myself for the following day before it began, because I’m odd like that, and make something to eat.

This morning I cycled in again, that’s the whole week, first time I’ve done that in just under 2 years. Subsequently my back is feeling better and I feel quite prepared for the weekend’s shenanigans, essentially a stag-do with walking involved, expect a full review next week.

It’s fucking dead in the office this morning, a handful of staff are gawping into monitors, including one new member in his mid 20’s who is both ginger and balding, a deadly combination and to happen in one so young is a tragedy. It’s got me to thinking how I’d cope with such an affliction, it’s not as if his disorder is offset with rugged good looks and a dazzling personality. He dresses like a New York bum and the only time I heard him talk was when he was asking another member staff if they could get hold of a poster for Showboat. Fucking Showboat! What sort of a man even says the word out loud, let alone admitting to liking it so much they want a fucking poster of it. He must be good at arranging flowers. Anyway, he sat across the way blowing his fucking nose like a granny, not doing any work and generally being all weird. (Why doesn’t he just fucking shave it off?)

I’m going to get through the day, get back home and prepare for tomorrow, preparation includes not going to the pub or drinking too much as I need to be up at fucking 7am to get to the station to hook up with the chaps to take the train…

Oh my congratulations to the son from my mate oop t’north as he’s just taken his first shit in a potty. Well done lad, lets just hope you don’t have the same odour affliction as your father who can down passing sparrows.

Imagine going bald AND being ginger, Jesus.

Oh, on the subject of afflictions, yes, he’s Welsh but he’s also jolly good and partially responsible for one of the 20th century’s most important bands. If you’re very good I may well present some of the stuff of the first band Jools mentions…