As it’s the Easter Holidays the posts over the next few days may be sporadic, besides this morning I had to go to church to praise Jebus and say, ‘hey big guy, yeah, like, thanks, yeah’. Good Friday indeed, it’s fucking great because I get a day off… but I still remember asking my mum what was so fucking good about being beaten half to death, having nails driven through ones limbs and left hanging on a wooden cross. Apparently it was a ‘Good Friday’ because ‘he died for my sins’. This left me confused, I was 7, I hadn’t done anything wrong (yet). It’s a bit much being told you’re a sinner by your own mum at 7 I can tell you. Actually it’s a bloody affront this original sin crap, talk about fucking unfair. One doesn’t stand a chance, however much grovelling one does in the nonexistent eyes of the big Gas, or whatever it’s meant to be, you’re screwed from the start. Still I’ll happily have the Christian holidays…
My journey home from work yesterday was just as exhilarating as the one in. The day passed speedily and the mood in the office had been very congenial so I left a bit early, leapt on the bike and as soon as I hit the road was caught up with a fellow biker who had taken it upon himself to pace me. We had a whale of a time slicing through the traffic, each refusing to yield to the other and hitting arsehole speeds in places where arsehole speeds aren’t acceptable. I arrived home in record time grinning from ear to ear, which lasted momentarily as Cunt was outside cleaning his fucking windows. He tried to talk to me from across the road, still with my lid on I nodded as one does if appeasing a retard. As I passed by him I noticed that he owned a proper window cleaning wedgee. What sort of a prick has one of those? ‘See you finally got a job’ I said without a hint of irony or amusement. A sort of laugh came out (or a grunt?) and I furiously went inside. I was just about to go into my flat when, peering into his, I spotted a double bed in a room that until recently had been full of ephemeral shit. I inwardly groaned thinking about my relative proximity to him as I slept. Christ, this means that if he wanks off without a tissue his flying jitler could be as close as 2 feet away from my naked arse.
I have a bastard hangover; I got up a couple of hours ago following a night in Old Street with Swineshead, his missus and a Tree Surgeon. On the journey back I can remember nothing apart from dying to take a leak. When I returned home I foolishly put on some music and lost myself for x hours with a few glasses of Fleurie, headphones clamped tight onto my gurning head.
I’ve just eaten breakfast in the kitchen overlooking the small garden (for want of a better word), fucking hell, Cunt was outside ‘painting’, not walls or fences, ‘painting’. Needless to say the tool has had no artistic training in any shape or form and the abortion he’d executed was so pathetically shit I had to stop myself from opening the kitchen window and flinging knives into the back of his idiot head. I refuse to describe what he’s shat out of his mind as my heart will explode but it was an ‘abstract’ thing with bollock shapes and funny farm colours.
I intended to meet some friends in Islington this afternoon/evening but I’m going to have to pass, I think I’d be alright but simply can’t face the prospect of a panic on the Tube. When hungover my ability to stave off such awfulness in compromised, I may consider meeting my mate from up the road later on but as I type this all I really want to do is take a big hairy shit.