‘That was William Haig’ said Den.
‘Fucking what!!?’ I span in my seat to watch a little bald tit skip lightly up a flight of stairs
‘Yeah’, said Den, ‘Cameron comes in here too…’
Den was more interested in who Haig was meeting. I was more intrigued to know what the fucking Tory cabinet were doing in a club better known for the likes of Lilly Allen and co all pissed up on Champers and whacked on sniff. Then I was interested in who Haig was meeting after concluding that I suppose this is the modern way of politics, get into bed with the media, rub shoulders with the celebs and bright young things and work the system to ones’ advantage. Christ, how awful.
I’d met Den, Harry and Bill for a few quiet drinks in an establishment in Soho; the place was gently fizzing as we chatted about our comings and goings, we sipped beers and gorged our faces on burgers that breached the balance between the ordinary and sublime. A drunk man passed by our table nearly falling onto some elderly guests, as I left via the blood-soaked toilets the drunk who’d clearly then fallen over in the privy was being treated to a gash over his right eye. At his age he really ought to know better I sighed as I walked into the balmy evening to catch the tube home. I arrived back at the flat feeling exhausted and oddly sober, watched some TV and went to be early bored shitless.
I really could have done without the news of the UK economy this morning. Surely the more they go on about how shit things are going to be then the prophecy will be self-fulfilled?
On that note, it’s a short Piqued today, I mean someone has to fill the gap don’t they, and that someone dear reader is me.