awturn

It’s that the time of year again, I find myself atop the seasonal slagheap, bejewelled and dappled it may be with russet browns and burnt orange hues perfectly framed by a smoky blue sky… Pap! ‘tis no more than a beauty born of deceit and lies. Soon the relentless hand of time will shove me gently from the summit, down, down towards the wilful jaws of winter, sliding hopelessly through v-shaped geese heading for warmer climbs, backward clocks, skeletal trees until finally tumbling through the gnashing teeth of misery where we flounder in the darkness and cold for what seems like eternity, our only friend is endless, ceaseless despair…

My bike ride yesterday afternoon had that awful feeling of cessation about it. As the motorcycle season begins preparation for hibernation, my ride, following a very disappointing Moto GP (the last few races have been, actually) was notable for two reasons. Firstly the leaves are beginning to turn, I was passing through the same stretch of road as last week, in that short space of time things had deteriorated, the green of the trees and fields has been compromised with a telling twinge of brown ‘other’. The second dead give away was the air, not so much the temperature, it was fairly mild but the freshness of it belied something that had hardened, within it there was an element of strength, wicked advantage even. Soon the air will be perfumed with a note of wood smoke before collapsing into a default odour of sheer bleakness. Shit.

The ride was still a triumph despite being buffeted extensively on some of the faster open roads –my neck is growing scaffolding- and made all the better for a visit to my month old niece. She’s beginning to focus now and for the first time actually looked directly at me. She looked confused, bemused and perplexed but within it all there was something in the way of recognition, I stared at her little blue haematite eyes as they grasped at all these new images before her, then her little face became frozen in a visage of shock and turned colour of plum, she burped loudly in my face. She is one of us. Not you, us.

The weekend was largely pleasant. Following the hangover on Friday, and the fact I’d not had an alcohol free for a fortnight, I decided that I’d abstain that very night. Frankly, I was feeling quite jaded from the boozy past few weeks, I was exhausted enough to be able to watch the BB finale and go off to sleep pretty much unchallenged by the screams from the bottles in the kitchen. At 7pm James called me asking if I fancied a pint, how could I refuse? We met at 9pm in my local and sat under the pergola in the garden, it was truly the last day of summer. We supped ale and chatted away, I’m glad I made it out despite not committing to my intended plan, we’ve been friends practically from birth (despite the fact he dropped a kettle on my head when we were three) so there is no pressure for either party to perform, it’s the purest form of relaxation, really.

I went to bed before 1 am and awoke at 10.30. Myfwt was supposed to have called me the previous evening following a night out on the tiles with work colleagues; I made a cup of tea and gave her a ring. She answered, clearly still pissed from the night out but also suffering the early stages of what would be a behemoth hangover. She softly requested I came to get her following each sentence with a nervous laugh, this wasn’t a good sign.

When I arrived at her house she appeared looking as beautiful as ever but as if recently electrocuted. She rigidly got into my vehicle grasping a bottle of water and gulping back last night’s entertainment. We arrived back at the flat and I put her to bed following a tentative sandwich. In the afternoon I met up with my mate Gerry, we had a couple of points and caught up. Bang went my second intention to abstain. Went I got back Myfwt had just made it to the couch, she wasn’t at all well but was gradually coming to life. We watched films as I imbibed steadily and I accidentally pulled off a 3am one, Myfwt having gone to bed sensibly some four hours earlier.

Subsequently last night I managed to stay off the pop. I knew it was the right course of action and today I feel all the better for it, so much so I decided to cycle in. I’ve noticed as I finish off Monday’s blog that the sun had just come out. That’s autumn for you, a googly-bowling bastard bounder.

This is out of sync…

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9 responses to “awturn

  • Napoleon Cockaparte

    ‘It was truly the last day of summer’

    Oh aye? Michael Foot now are we? Nonce! NONCE!

  • piqued

    Michael Foot. Yes, the well-known Labour politician, journalist, author and life long supporter of Plymouth Argyle F.C. agrees with me

    Michael Fish who memorably mis-forecast the great storm on 1987 killing 19 people wasn’t available for comment

    Oh, AHAHAHAHAHAHAHHA

  • Napoleon Cockaparte

    SHIT! SHIT! You cunt! I meant Fish, I meant Fish! I’ll get you for this.

  • piqued

    *smokes a cigarette*

    Dear boy, do calm down. Your behaviour isn’t befitting that of an Englishman.

  • Napoleon Cockaparte

    How dare you! If you look back on your behaviour (cooking broccolli like a big ponce, being pathetically upset because summer’s coming to an end, knowing what the word ‘roux’ means, gushing like a sentimental girl over a fucking birthday party and getting excited about salmon) you’ll find it’s YOU, madam, that is unfit to wear the title of ‘Englishman’. I bet you’re French aren’t you? FRENCH!

  • piqued

    Officer, arrest this young hooligan will you, it’s not so much the shouting but I draw the line at spittle arriving on my scone.

    I suggest you give him one of those ASBO fellows..?

    *bites into scone with noticeable erection*

  • Napoleon Cockaparte

    If I knew where you lived I’d have you stabbed!

  • breekom

    i’m back to blog on wordpress. i am just another noise.

    see?

    having spent months not drinking so much and not smoking i feel dull and under-utilised. things are about to change.

    also, your blog makes me want a motorbike. or at least a vespa.

    vroom vroom.

  • piqued

    A Vespa is not a motorcyle Bree, the latter is the sort of puddle jumping transport I’d expect to see that Napoleon fellow on

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