I can’t be arsed to post today, I’ve a malaise.
This may have something to do from a failure to fully recuperate from the beginning of the week, in terms of sleep certainly I’m well behind. I was up very early yesterday morning following an evening with IC and found going to bed at the ‘right time’ last night very difficult. I somehow feel I’ve been short changed if I hit the hay before 1am. This ridiculous logic stems from my self-imposed ‘8 hours on, 8 hours off’ rule, from my late 20’s when I started to work full time, if I spend 8 hours at work then I’m entitled to spend the 8 off out of my brain.
Saw Harry last night for a few beers, we chatted about Scrabble for the most part and walked into the tube together. Harry’s train was already on the platform so he didn’t see the tall, wiry skinhead clutching the Clapham North sign and undressing himself. Pissed beyond human he was. As I approached he got out his very modest tool and began to urinate over the platform. As I passed I felt as if I ought to say something but he beat me to it with a ‘what you looking at, having your head kicked in?’
I weighed the matter up, he was so drunk I figured that even if he could see me there would be a good chance he’d fall off the platform before he got to me, and even if he did get to me I…bear in mind I’d had a few too, but not as much as him.
‘Needle dick,’ I heard myself say over the sound of his torrent of pee. There was silence behind as the piss stopped, suddenly I felt very sober, I caught a mental glimpse of myself on the front of The Metro pictured with IC last year in Porto and ‘Thrown Under Train’ written over the top of my grinning face. Christ, they’ve printed my age…
‘Yeah, whatever,’ the skin said.