It’s just gone past 6am and I can’t fucking sleep. I can see the colour of the baby blue sky, blushed with a light pink, gradually fade over the line of terraced house on the other side of the road from where I write, it’s going to be a glorious day. Its bank holiday Monday and I’m not sure if I’m still pissed or not.
I was awoken yesterday by a text from my brother at sometime past 11am, it read ‘ “Jesus Christ! Screamed Peter, It’s Jesus! The motherfucker’s back from the dead!” Quick as a flash, Thomas grabs his 12 gauge and runs to Peter’s side. The undead figure of Jesus was getting nearer, the gaping, bleeding wounds clearly visible in his hands, feet and side. Thomas levelled the gun at Our Lords head. “Amen his arse Tommy”. Thomas focussed breathing out slowly. He took aim “Doubt this!” Thomas unloads both barrels. Kablammo!’ The message then finished with an invitation to the pub in Clapham by the common.
I didn’t think twice about accepting, despite being unsure if I was sober from the previous night. One of my best friends had managed to wriggle free from domestic duties to indulge in various forms of adolescent behaviour. He and I met at 17 and have a reputation for getting irresponsibly pissed, especially these days, as we don’t get to see each other as much as we used to. On Saturday evening he met me, and my mate from up the road, in a local Tooting boozer. He was late as usual, but not to the point of concern, and we starting the night off with a few rounds of gassy Danish beer, the music was loud, eclectic and distracting and varied from ‘right up my alley’ to ‘under the patio’, randomly. In addition, the pub was half empty and there was a palpable sense of ‘holiday’ in the air, this and the eclectic music certainly had an effect on the three of us and we stayed a bit longer than was perhaps necessary. After my mate from up the road had said farewell, my old pal and I bought a fucking kebab from a frankly lethal eatery near to the boozer, despite the usual moans. On at least two occasions he and I have both succumb to losing said kebabs within minutes of it going down, yet this didn’t seem to feature as we experimented with a chicken sheesh. It was fucking awful but neither of us saw it again.
After we’d eaten the shit in the kitchen we grabbed more beer and whacked on some music. At some point I was told a story that was so funny I was bent in half for over 10 minutes, it had something to do with vomiting on a train but for the life of me I can’t recall it now. What I do remember, though, was my pals CD. He’s been playing the guitar since we met and has now moved into making entire recordings on his PC. So good is it I intend to do something about it, as he won’t, or possibly can’t. I think we finally settled to sleep at 4?
After breakfast yesterday my pal fucked off and I set off in the warm sunshine for Clapham Common. I was aware of feeling actually happy, I mentally monitored the check list, despite minor niggles all was good, I didn’t have cancer, my dick works and I was off to the pub at lunchtime. Cool.
I arrived in good time, he and his missus had already poured me glass of Pinot Noir, they’d even been so kind as to buy me an Easter Egg, and I settled in for the afternoon. The sunlight was so bright in the pub I had to wear my dark glasses as we chatted and drunk in a most congenial manner, the subject of Glastonbury certainly wetted our appetite for conviviality, until my bro had a 24-Carat whiteout a few hours later, probably just as well as I’d entered that phase of drinking that could easily involve adverse behaviour with female bar staff. It was rather odd walking back from the pub in blazing sunshine when my head was telling me it was about 11.30 pm and by rights should be dark. The short tube journey injected a moment of balance but this was negated by the surreal occasion of walking right back into the sunshine on its cessation. I begun to understand what it would feel like if the sun never set, it felt all rather sci-fi but in an utterly pissed-out-of-my-tree way.
I got back home right at the start of Spiderman 2, I enjoyed so much I whooped on 3 separate occasions and really, I’m no ‘whooper’. Needless to say the rest of the evening was massive blur but catching a glimpse of both a. The Passion of the Christ and b. something about The Shroud of Turin, I did noticed that, a. the Roman Guards looked fucking ace and, b. The Shroud of Turin is actually belly-laughable, it resembles a Motorhead roadie’s bed clothes at best and at worst is a childish cynical and patronising effort to reengage the secular populace with ‘Christianity’.
I need to go back to sleep, I’ll finish this later.
Right, I’m off to the boozer in Clapham for a return match with my bro to be monitored by my mate from up the road who’ll be joining us, before you go please do tune into Watch With Mothers (link to the right of this very page) and check on the developing row over some crap I wrote on Tourette’s.