very very drunk

After visiting James and his new son, a lovely little fellow who has grown an extraordinary amount since I last saw him, Friday night took a turn for the dark side.

Myfwt came back from her office party at about 1.30 am quite pissed, I mean really pissed. This in itself wasn’t an issue; she’s usually a jolly little soul after a few, but after a slurred giggly chat it was clearly time she hit the sack, about the same time as Cunt and some mates (this is a first, there were two of them down there, two!) decided to ‘sing’ with guitars. Imagine if you will 3 cunts singing The Drugs Don’t Work to an out of tune toneless guitar, with Cunt trying to out ‘sing’ all of them. It’s Friday night, they’re not playing through amps so I’m not overly fussed under the circumstances, but the snag is the room in which they were making this cacophony is right over the bathroom -which has not carpet, the same bathroom that Myfwt need to visit to throw her guts up.

In the space of an hour Myfwt went to the bathroom 16 times, accompanied by yours truly to ensure her safety as by now her motor skills had gone to shit. On each occasion we’d return to bed, she’d lie down and minutes later she’s be up and out the bedroom, opening the door to the bathroom to allow the fucking hideousness downstairs to run alongside the dulcet tones of Myfwt removing gins, sambuca, beer and whisky from her face. Put my desire to sleep into the equation and you can see how I felt as if looped in some sort of apocalyptic nightmare.

Even quiet the sound of the fucking 3 Amigos downstairs was permeating into the bedroom; this wasn’t helping so I made up the sofa bed in the lounge. I’m not entirely sure why but this hit the spot in terms of breaking the puke-cycle of Myfwt and we slept soundly until the following morning where we swapped back to our usual sleeping device to finish off our rest.

I made Myfwt some breakfast which alerted her system into one of recovery, I supplied her with tea and sympathy before leaving her in bed and taking the bus to Wimbledon train station. It was a cold wet morning but I was comforted by The Guardian and a fresh coffee on the station platform waiting for my bro and his missus, who were running late.

When they eventually arrived we jumped on the train for the 25 minute journey to Oxshott where we met up with my sister, whose birthday was the reason for our meeting in a restaurant fro lunch, my bro-in-law, niece, mum and dad. The afternoon passed in a most congenial manner, the wine flowed and traditional English fare sated our appetites amid much sniggering and conversation. My niece was being a little stroppy initially but she soon fell into the congenial mood of the family. It was a splendid afternoon and all too soon we were back on the train heading homewards. I’d had a few wines and was required to decide if I should stop or carry on… the latter decision was put upon me by Frank who requested my company for a couple of ales at the local.

I got back home at 8 or so, again, do I stop or continue? Spurning food, I was still digesting lunch, I opened a bottle of wine a fell into my headphones, beginning with the Suno ))) album which blew my head off and moving through Nirvana, Yes, PJ Harvey, Subhumans, Slayer, Machine Head, Bob Dylan, Korn… smoking and drinking all the while and wrapped in the most glorious cloud of sound and drugs.

At about 3 I was done, well and truly. I awoke at 1pm on Sunday feeling dreadful. The afternoon was written off but as luck would have it Back to the Future 2 was on to nurse me through my malaise. At 6 Myfwt arrived with some shopping and she made us supper after taking pity on my condition and going some way to repaying me for my care on Friday night. We both spurned drinks, preferring tea to accompany an evening sat quietly in front of the TV.

Christmas is fast approaching, this is my last full week at work until next year, a delightful prospect but one also fraught with having to finish off the seasonal gift-getting and wotnot. On the other hand it’s still Monday, it’s cold and wet and despite not having drunk last night, I feel crap.

Good Morning

recycle Jackie

Once a week the chaps from the council come along to collect the recyclables. We are provided with two bins per household (meaning I have to share with Cunt) a purple one for plastic and tins (which is pathetic because the former can only be recycled by type not generically –still, I chuck all my plastic in anyway, just in case it won’t wind up in a landfill) and a green one for bottles and newspapers.

Last night at about 11pm Cunt decided to recycle his stuff, something he doesn’t usually bother doing because he’s a dribbling gitprong, so, of course instead of popping it quietly in the fucking bin like a normal human he stands a few feet away and throws each item in one by one, just so the whole of fucking south London knows of his benevolence to humanity. This morning when I came down one bin was full of the remnants of fine wines and broadsheets, the other full of tins of Stella Artois and Carling and a single copy of last Thursday’s Sun.

I had a pleasant evening, met up with Frank in the local for a couple of chocolaty ales and a couple of tabs in the marquee out back, before returning home for a luxury bath in which I was able to submerge my sweet little head without fear of winding up like that bloke in the John Betjeman Poem with the egg shaped head and crap tie. I ate supper, steamed broccoli and the other Chicken Kiev I bought last week, it wasn’t very nice to be honest, never again, as I watched Gordon Ramsey doing his magicians act for some cunts in Wales.

At some point between acts, an advert appeared on TV for ‘Jackie, the Album’. Jackie was a girl’s magazine in the 70’s, it was aimed at girls older than my sister but my mate Paul had a sister who was just the right age. We used to ‘borrow’ her copy primarily to read the problem pages, first time I ever saw the phrase ‘smelly discharge’ and I nearly died laughing, I digress, I was just leaving the room to get some more wine when I was forced back to listen to the featured tracks. It was like being stunned with a nostalgia gun, one of the songs my granny used to sing to me, another I’d not heard since the long drought of 1976, another one I really liked but didn’t know who the fuck the band was… I must have it in my possession, sod the fact that it will be the gayest thing I’ve ever had, ever. Even gayer than Eddie Izzard kissing the tiny face of a weeping fairy sat on a daisy.

After the News and an Alan P on Dave I became bored. It was too early for bed and too late to get steaming so I challenged myself to a top ten, (this was possibly a reaction to Jackie, the Album?)

I’d had two pints and two wines and thought it was only fair that in two minutes I spontaneously regurgitated my top ten favourite films. Being a tad tipsy one is a little more honest than one would be if, say, cavorting about the NFT of an afternoon stone cold sober. Besides, when one is a wee bit pissed every minute seems longer (and more bearable). So here it is, unedited and as it came out. I was rather surprised by the lack of zombies.

Withnail and I
Goodfellas
Fargo
Fight Club
Back to the Future 2
10 Rillington Place
The Great Escape
North by Northwest
Kind Hearts and Cornonets
Annie Hall

Now you try, if you’ve any balls you can post them as a comment, but no cheating…

Or u di

(sorry about this)