My weekend began with a pint and a fucking curry, just like a real man might. I met up with Frank from up the road and we had a pint in another local, one full of local people but not the same ones from the local one we normally frequent because it wasn’t local to them. The place was rammed full of locals but we managed to find a spot in which to imbibe without interruption from locals before moving onto the curry house with was, thankfully, virtually local-free.

We ate ourselves solid, a vast quantity of delicious matter went in and stayed down, before we left for home we went back to the pub and did some whisky. Sensibly, when I returned home I had some wine. Actually this wasn’t sensible, I woke on Saturday with a magnificent hangover that I had to kill before setting off to the East End to meet IC. Using the holy trinity of bath, tea and crumpets (the latter with marmalade and butter) the malaise was compromised sufficiently for me to travel the hour-long journey without vomiting Lamb Jalfrezi/vinegar, bursting into to tears or farting mustard gas over my travel companions. By the time I arrived at Hackney I was as right as rain.

IC and I did some light shopping; this was my last weekend with her before Christmas and therefore my birthday (indeed, this was my last weekend with her in my 30’s. I thought about bursting into tears again as this realisation punched me in the face as we passed by drunk men). She needed to finish up her purchases before she nips off to foreign this weekend but despite what I said about weeping on the pavement it was rather jolly and festive. When we returned home we watched two Hitchcock movies taking us through dinnertime and the evening, a sedentary quantity of Processco was enjoyed as Saturday kicked off its shoes and dressed for Sunday.

We got up late and went out after espresso to finish off the Christmas stuff. This meant a protracted visit to Woolies to get toys for IC’s cousins which caused my mind to recall such visits with mum round Christmas when I was no bigger than sperm. It became apparent that I’ve maintained the same idiotic delight when surrounded by toys, indeed, I was on the verge of wandering about the place swinging a light sabre with a Dalek on my head. I resisted maintaining both my dignity and a day in court.

We got back and ate a late lunch of smoked salmon and poached eggs, watched a couple of Curbs and popped out for a drink early evening. A lovely warm night of food and TV saw the weekend off, sadly. Now the jaws of Christmas are wide open with all manner of delights ahead, alas, this also means sporadic posts. Alas indeed, here, have some E6…

7 responses to “werfsz

  • Napoleon

    So, business as usual, eh? Your life is a never-ending circle of ordinariness, Piqued. A boring roundabout of eat, drink, sleep repeat. You are BLAND.

    Anyway, how’s your back?

  • piqued

    I live an ordinary life, I think most people do? Or can you fly or something.

    Having said that you’re getting better at this ‘stating the bleedin’ obvious’ malarkey…

    Back’s great thank you, how are your hair follicles.

  • Napoleon

    Yes, I can fly. And I’m pleased you agree with me, you broken-backed spider.

    My hair’s fine, thanks. Much better than yours because it’s not made in a cheap wig factory in Indonesia.

    Ho ho!

    (I’m bored to tears today, by the way)

  • piqued

    As well you know I’ve fine locks, thick and generous, best thing is I don’t look like Cronos from Venom…

    Have you seen Broken-Back Mountain btw? Its got men in it touching each other downstairs, can you fathom that? Men loving one another as if man and wife. God.

    I’m not bored because I’ve a job (I’m bored though btw)

  • Napoleon

    Men doing what?? Not in Britain, surely?

  • piqued

    Good Lord no! In Britain! God forbid… gah.

    I’ve just vomited at the thought


    No, I think it was in Africa.

  • Napoleon

    Thank God for that! You had me worried there, Piqued. I don’t want this country dragged down into the same moral sewer that did for the Greeks, thanks very much. I don’t need seven throbbing inches of foreign man meat quivering at the doors of my Great British anus, oh no! They can keep those juicy, spunk-filled balls of theirs to …

    Actually, I’m just popping to the toilet …

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