My bother and I were having a conversation about porn in a pub in Covent Garden with regard to a particular scene in which a gentleman twists his member (note ‘twist’ he wasn’t doing it up and down, like) in order to issue what appears to be toothpaste into a rather cross actresses hair. Our ensuing gestures and giggles weren’t going unnoticed by a middle ages couple at the adjacent table, indeed, it’s quite an achievement to approach forty and still have the capacity to offend people so much they actually get up, leave their drinks and go. It serves them right for ear-wigging if you ask me.
That was Friday, my bro and I were in town and we pulled out all the stops, the evening was funny and at times very emotional for reasons not for here but the aftermath of our indulgence knocked out most of Saturday. This wasn’t a bad thing, whilst it was a beautiful day the more time I could spend without consciously being aware of time until Sunday evening the better.
Nonetheless, by 3 pm, following the play on Radio 4, I was sufficiently fixed enough to don my leathers and jump on my black bitch for a blast to the depths of Surrey. The weather, hot, sunny and more pertinently, still, played host to my scream over the asphalt away from the city. I’ve tried and probably failed to describe what it feels like to ride on days such as this so I won’t bother now but it really is the most fun one can have with ones trousers on. Marvellous.
I arrived at my sisters and received the usual greeting from my niece, tears, but she recovered soon after. My sister was upstairs throwing up from some sort of bug I was happy not to contract so I spent a happy hour with my bro in law in the garden watching my niece stagger about on her fat little legs, she learnt to walk on Tuesday incidentally. No big deal, I can walk, piece of piss.
By the time I left niece and I were getting on fine, the ride back was nearly as magnificent as the first and made more enjoyable by a cat and mouse tangle with some chap on a GSX1000. Marvellous. I popped into Sainsbury on my way back to pick up some kippers and pizza for breakfast and supper respectively, at home I got out of my sweaty leathers and went of to meet Frank in the local for a few pints of delicious ale. Obviously I got dressed first, it was hot enough to wander about the streets in ones pants but I don’t think it’s, well, very British.
At home I carried on drinking, I was thinking along the lines of ‘kill Sunday until such time you need to go into town and meet IC’, of course all I achieved was a fucking hangover that turned my water into orange gravy. A kipper helped to partially alleviate the agony but to my irritation time had ceased to engage with motion.
After writing some of this, reading, watching stuff on TV, I flopped onto the black bitch and headed out to the West part of Croydon to visit James. The poor bastard had just moved there with his family, still the gaff wasn’t bad at all and considerably better than his last dwelling. His son is the antithesis of my niece, a bit younger but he was all smiles and chuckles when I arrived, he maintained suitable interest for yours truly for the duration of my visit too but because he can’t walk yet I decided to spurn his advances.
I zipped home narrowly avoiding a head-on collision in Mitcham Lane, a man was simply driving on the wrong side of the road at 60 mph, it was as shocking and as literal as that, luckily I dove nearside in time to avoid his bumper, I gave the cunt the finger which he clocked. He was so completely out of his tree he just smiled. I hope he got killed before he did for anyone else, and I mean that with utter sincerity.
I arrived back home disappointed I’d done virtually nothing to speed up the day; I’d knocked a mere pair of hours out of it. It was no good, it was 7pm, I had 4 fucking hours left before I would even set off! This was ridiculous. I managed to catch the tail end of a programme I wished I’d seen in its entirety which angered me sufficiently to kill a good 30 minutes fuming, I arrived mid way through Top Gear which was duller than David Cameron’s fingernails. 9pm… 2 hours before I leave.
I watched some film with Michael Douglas, truly pitiful, I couldn’t concentrate, time was going backwards. After what seemed like the Neolithic period I finally set off. The tube journey was partially saved by Sebastian Horsley’s splendid Dandy in the Underworld, which I heartily recommend. If you go to Urban Woo’s sublime blog (link right) there is a link to his on the right incidentally…
I arrived at Liverpool Street at 11.45; I still had over an hour to wait before IC’s train arrived. ‘Bollocks’, I said rather loudly to some homeless tool giving me his life story in lieu of 20p and a half my roll-up. I sat down and was relentlessly hassled by bums and staff alike, the former wanting alms, the latter information as to what I was doing there sat reading and stabbing impatient glances at the clock.
I can’t recall a time when an hour has passed so relentlessly slowly; I was so near yet so far. My mind swam with the possibilities of a plane crash, a train derailment, an earthquake, some small twist of fate that would see me sat there in perpetuity waiting for the train that never came… But finally at 0.51, right on time, her train rolled into the station.
It should be patently obvious what it was like to see her after exactly three weeks We went home by cab, I was happier than a chap who’d been given a stay of execution, cleared of all charges and subsequently rewarded with the keys to the city. Yesterday, still with the same disposition, IC and I spent a largely aimless day catching up which ended in dinner in one of our favourite gaffs in the East.
Despite the rain, the decline of the summer, the office and all, I’m still feeling pretty bloody chuffed which must make reading this sufficiently nauseating.