I think I may have slept too long; I’m bloody shattered today, exhausted and feeling vaguely removed, as if I’m existing in a gelatinous aura.
The office is dead, quite dead. Today is going to be long and uninspired; I may have to wind up the failed actor for some amusement, schadenfreude, it’s lower down the ladder than sarcasm but twice as nice.
There is something going on downstairs that I’ve failed to figure. Cunt has people in there. Possibly more than one. I hear his gibbon tones, over everyone else of course, but he’s definitely conversing with ‘people’. Last night one drove off and there was certainly another in there who may or may not have left later. Obviously, if we were talking about a normal individual here having people over it wouldn’t be worth a seconds thought. But we’re not. I suspect something controversial, possibly illegal.
Yesterday evening after returning home I made my way to the tube. By the time I reached the station it was drizzling, when I alighted at the other end it was like the air had become water, I was soaked in seconds and arrived at the pub in Clapham looking like a woodland creature after swimming lessons. I thought my leather jacket on drying would resemble a wankers tissue but it’s been cured and treated remarkably well and I was delighted to see it wasn’t effect one jot.
I’m not a gay (here on in ‘Ing’ there is a link to his website to the right —> thus) arrived minutes after looking suitable drenched. He and I sipped beers and discussed recent topics (that you are free to read about on both our blogs) in a most convivial fashion. After a lengthy chat about motorcycles, transpires his dad actually built a bike, we managed to drink heartily, but not excessively, as the football droned on in the background. Like me, Ing has a female companion referred to (with all due respect to both) as an abbreviation and we thought it would be rather jolly if, shortly, they should meet under our wise guidance. Then we talked about doing some more hash cakes together and getting all fucked up.
After a while Ing and I walked back to the tube were we said a fond farewell and returned to our respective dwellings. I decided that another can of beer wasn’t in order; I ate and went to bed early to read in utter peace. Lovely. Be nice if Cunt was involved in some bizarre suicide pact.
The failed actor has just kicked off, he’s wandering round the office with a bright red face, rictus grin, hands clasped to the side of his head and he’s actually whining. I just asked him what the fuck is the matter with him, ‘I c c c c can’t get online’ he whimpered.
I have to say, it felt rather nice to laugh into the twats face.
This is a classic…