I’ve come to the very sensible conclusion that Tuesday is by far and away the most unpleasant day of the week. Even a Monday can be saved by the fading dreams of a fine weekend and the, albeit few and infrequent, Bank Holiday, but a Tuesday sits there for the sole purpose of listlessly extending the time between one and 5pm Friday. It suffers from its being mundane, indifferent, inconsequential, it’s not the start of the week nor the middle of it, it’s nothing but a 24 hour bastard. Fuck Tuesday.
As usual the day at work was a trudge from start to finish, it was cold, rainy and the office was removed of its vaguely cheery gritty character. I even watched Budd Dwyer blowing his brains out again just to allow the juddering chill of horror to change the direction of the bland passing of office time. I’d resigned myself to have a night off the pop, it’s not as if I’ve been particularly bad over the past few weeks but I’d not had a night off since late October which I justified via the season and darkness and temperature… I intended to spend the night in front of the TV eating sausages, early night, that sort of thing.
Then late pm I get a call from Harry. Within seconds I had plans to go out to the local pub, suddenly Tuesday didn’t seem so awful. He and I met at a little after 7 and we remained there until 11.30. Drinking a fine drop of Adnams Explorer we chatted away in a heated tent in the beer garden covering all manner of topics in a most congenial fashion. On the way home we grabbed pizza from Tesco, we were too late to purchase wine and Myfwt and I had rid ourselves of the weekly stock at home through sheer conviviality, but I had beers in the fridge.
On entering chez Piqued Cunts door opened and a naughty little face popped out to obsequiously ask if ‘it was too loud’. He was clearly off his face, the prick. I informed him I’d not a clue, having just walked in etc., (how grimly unintelligent) but at least Harry was able to actually see in action the manifestation of horror that is Cunt. Now he knows. Indeed Cunt treated us to more delights, for the first time I can recall he had a friend over (rare anyway) who actually stayed there for more than an hour. Naturally such a person must share a similar view of the world, you know, ————-, and this was reflected in their conversation which consisted of making yourself heard by shouting like a fucking docker and laughing maniacally as if ones frontal cortex was being macerated by a knitting needle. I just hope that when they did move onto the flinging their own faeces about the place they showered after.
Still Harry didn’t seem too fussed as we enjoyed Dead Ringers (the film, not that fucking amazingly shit TV show with that bloke who, like Mike Yarwood back in the 70’s, hasn’t realised that a wig does not an impersonation make) and after a night cap we hit the sack at about 2-ish, in separate rooms obviously, whilst I’ve nothing against them I’m not one to push Maltesers north.
So, there you have it, Tuesday saved right at the end. Yes, I have a mild hangover but it’s the middle of the week and it’s a gorgeous lovely sunny day Ducks.
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Hi. How are you?