What a wonderful, marvellous, joyous weekend. The weather was perfect, it was choc full-o-funs and Cunt got his fucking head kicked in.
I can hardly wit to indulge you, but first, let’s start from Friday where my weekend began trundling cheerfully to a boozer by London Fields to meet IC, herself full of the joys of spring-to-be following a relatively calm week in the work place. She and I arrived at pretty much the same time as the last of the sunshine was soaked up by the blue dusk of evening. We had a pair of drinks and set off back to hers, she on her velocipede and I on the bus with a gentleman flowing with bogies offering crack to a couple of condoling kids.
After a light supper we walked up the road to meet Swineshead and his missus for a natter and a drink or two. The pleasant evening was somewhat compromised by some sort of exchange between the womenfolk involving a large chest of drawers. Despite it talking SH and I 15 minutes to get it down his stairs the idea was that IC and I would ‘wheel’ the lump back to her gaff (a 10 minutes unburdened walk away through the sorts of streets one sees in The Wire.)
This was all well and good but by the time we’d reached the end of SH’s flat one of the wheels disintegrated, which was probably a good thing for the surrounding community as the volume of the trundling furniture was akin to an erupting volcano. Luckily she and I were topped up with Cabernet Sauvignon so the effort of having to carry the bastard was undertaken in a state of bloody-minded delirium. Nonetheless it was one fuck of a struggle, our hooded audience paid us scant attention save a few congenial cat calls and amazingly, after 20 minutes, we made it back barely able to move our limbs in order to get the behemoth up two more flights of stairs and into her room. Obviously we celebrated our achievements with a few more drinks before retiring, exhausted.
On Saturday IC took a pot of black paint to the new furniture and I set about repairing the drawers. We set off to meet to some friends for a late lunch in Clerkenwell, it was warm enough to sit outside in the sunshine and eat, heralding the first truly warm day of the year on the first official day of Spring. After lunch and a bit more too-ing and fro-ing we took the bus and tube back to my place and scrubbed up for dinner. Before we left an enormous fucking din erupted from beneath my feet as Cunt took it on himself to perform his retarded noise filth, probably with his fat stinking tongue lolling out of his cracked stupid lips. The sound was curtailed 20 minutes later when the other thing in his place pleaded for silence. I only know this because I heard the honking cockmeat object to her pleas with, ‘you don’t understand, you’re not a musician,’ mentally aiming for the source of his gob I’ve no idea how I prevented myself from smashing my foot though the floorboards and stamping on his thick skull.
After a period of calm I was back to my blithesome self. It was 8-ish when we took the short walk to the curry house. Being a little more au fait with the menu we ordered a perfect selection of dishes, one main and a range of starters and indulged. As usual we over-ordered and, as one would expect, were unable to stop eating even after we were both well past the point of merely sated.
We waddled back to the flat, the thought of not having to get up for work for another day, with some Saturday left, sprung our heels home.
As we approached the flat the porch light was on. Sighing with hate I explained to IC that on occasion this occurs for no other reason that my downstairs neighbour is a thoughtless shit massacre with brains less developed than frog-spawn.
I placed the key in the lock to the communal hallways and through the frosted glass door, to my complete dismay, I saw Cunt’s door gingerly open as if to receive me. My heart dropped to my Converse, I hissed something to IC who bristled behind me. I stepped into the hall and what I saw caused me to plunge my central incisors through my labia oris to stifle the first ‘HA’ (which had it been allowed to escape would’ve blown Cunt and the thing with him through his back wall) of a hurricane of uncontrollable laughter.
Slouched in front of me, and confused I wasn’t his daddy (the porch light was on for him, presumably Cunt suspected his dad may forget where the house he’d bought for his son was located) bleeding heavily from a gaping two-inch gash below a pitch-black slit of an eye and a five-piece size hole where his eyebrow had once been, was Cunt. Still unable to dare speak in case I started to sing I took the whole scene in with a growing woody. IC slipped past me and up the stairs leaving me to manage the situation alone. In addition to feeling faint she knew that had she caught my eye I’d have been helpless to prevent collapsing in a heap of shoulder-breaking giggles.
I managed to ask what had happened. He who ‘knew Kung Fu’, he who had once requested I join him outside for a punch up when a year or so ago I had the audacity to ask him to not ‘play’ the Organ at 3am on a Monday morning when the sound would’ve drowned out the Mander incarnation at The Royal Albert Hall, was stood shaking in front of me on the brink of tears. I took control of myself largely by lamenting the fact that he was stood there and not in a hospital or better still, a mortuary.
Behind the door his partner, literally dribbling from some narcotic, said ‘hello’ as if I was here to read the gas meter. By now Cunt had turned white and was on the brink of collapse. I left him unsteady for a while and asked him what had happened. To cut a long story short it transpires that his initial claim to having been randomly attacked was punctuated with caveats. As far as I can gather from getting staccato information from his dosed up companion the following day, Cunt bumped into someone in Tooting High Street and was challenged to apologise, when he failed to do so he was challenged to a dust up, to which he accepted. He was giving an almighty right hook to his eye (the kid who smacked him, in addition to being on the receiving end of a drink should I meet him, must have been as fit as fuck) and Cunt went down. I have to confess to exaggerating earlier, Cunt didn’t have his head kicked in per se; he was hit once by someone who really knew how to land a punch and left bleeding on the street, which’ll have to do for now.
Regular readers of this tripe might be for forgiven I’ve gone a bit soft in my old age when I tell you that I took a few minutes out of my Saturday night to treat his fucking cut with cotton wool and ice and calm him down, he was clearly in a state of shock and bleeding profusely, his white hoody was saturated. I’ve been beaten up twice, once unconscious, and it’s far from pleasant. I take comfort that the physiological consequences of the attack will hopefully render him as paranoid and frankly, afraid, as it did me in my early 20’s to induce some respect for those around him, but right then, to ensure he didn’t pass out and because I was raised properly by decent parents, I did what I could before his dad arrived. I left his poor father to take him to A&E where he had 6 stitches (and by god I hope they hurt) and half his stupid that’ll-teach-you-a-lesson face bandaged up.
IC and I had a fantastic Saturday night. We watched Traffic and drank wine, every so often I was forced to put down my glass and punch the air.
Sunday was stunning, warm and sunny with clear blue skies save the odd snow-white fluffy cloud. After a breakfast of crab and toast (IC discovered these pots of 100% and nothing else Brown Crab Meat in Waitrose if you please, they’re only a couple of quid and completely stupidly delicious) we set off on the Black Bitch to see my family, ostensibly my mum it being Mothering Sunday. But before that we took a long and lazy chug right through Richmond Park, complete with frolicking Deer and pink blossoms, sublime it was.
At my parent my niece greeted me with predictable screams but a short while after she seemed comfortable with me being there, she even came over for a cautious ‘high-five’ and when I left gave me a nervous kiss. A very pleasant afternoon passed with the family, which included my dad farting loudly in front of IC in the loft as I went through some old stuff to be cleared out. After a couple of hours we shot home at dusk via the shops, I made a splendid supper of roasted onion, tomato and prawns (nested in Yorkshire Pudding) that we ate in the kitchen in front of the TV, this was followed by a movie in the living room as we relaxed and eked out the final hours of the weekend.
Below us all was silent.