On Friday night I met up with James, impending fatherhood is less than 2 weeks away so it wasn’t entirely unexpected that by 3.30 in the morning I was lying gurgling on the lounge carpet and James was slumped semi-conscious in a chair. Looking back now it seems a long way from this fucking desk, chair and PC at work.
When we got in from the pub James went off to hang a piss and needing to do the same I followed him straight in. At this point I will confess that I hardly ever stand up to whiz, especially if I’ve had a few or am armed with a chubby, so I sat down, only to find that seat was warm. It got me thinking, how many men stand taking a tinkle in their own homes? I think for the sake of the nation there should be government-funded research into the whole phenomena of men weeing whilst seated. I reckon the results would be staggering causing a radical re-think in the whole urinal nonsense forced upon men in pubs and bars, the current upshot of which means that total strangers can view my tool, an unacceptable situation in the 21st century.
The hangover on Saturday was fucking dreadful, after the pints and some cans James suggested we each had a G&T, I knew it was a mistake when I was pouring them, and when James remarked how strong they were, my cocky laugh was still echoing round my body 12 hours later but as a headache of crippling worth. I managed to eat breakfast but was forced back to bed due to my malaise and I didn’t surface until 5 in the afternoon having wasted the whole bloody day.
My intention was to meet some friends in Soho at 8 to celebrate an engagement but I was forced to sheepishly text my apologies. Fortunately Myfwt arrived to save me and we ate and watched x-factor as the first chink of sobriety signalled some form of recovery. I stayed up late due to the excessive sleep I’d had earlier and watched Hell in the Pacific, a wonderful film let down only by the dreadful ending. It rather annoyed me actually.
Yesterday Myfwt left at 11am to help her cousin move house and I arose and watched a fantastic Japanese Grand Prix, full of incident and culminating in victory for the young Lewis Hamilton whose championship lead has been satisfactorily extended.
After lunch I jumped on my black bitch and shot off to the motorcycle accessory shop. For the last few years I’ve been wrestling with a pair of leather trousers that are so tight I seriously risk losing a testicle putting them on, they were never a good purchase so I made the decision to replace them with something that offers me the possibility of having children one day. Finding the right size of trousers was a lot harder than it sounds. Size 30 could be anything from 34 to 40 and the size 32 I tried on must have been about 24 on the waist but were song long I couldn’t see my feet. I reckon they were designed for that Jack Skellington from a Nightmare Before Christmas. After a lot of sweating and puffing I settled on a decent pair that I wore right out the shop. The difference it made to the quality of ride is a joy and, subsequently, I nearly killed myself 5 minutes later, please don’t dismiss that last comment out of turn, it was really close, I hit an object on the A3 as I was accelerating through 120 and the bike snapped into a tank flap. Still not sure how I recovered the black bitch.
From here I went over to visit my folks who were also looking after my niece whilst her parents caught up on some rest. In the space of a week she’s now figured out how to cough, she’s smiling a lot more and responding very well to my attentive prodding -which I may have over done as she shit on my knee when I poked her tummy, burped in my face when I picked her up and rounded it all off my throwing up all over my fucking t-shirt when I was winding her after feeding. What a little Sex Pistol.
I had roast pork and potatoes et al for dinner and remained clear of the booze. The Sunday evening horror came in hard. I’ve had the last few Mondays off but knowing I had to be in today and I was expected to cycle, my back needs it, I was feeling about as cheery as recaptured POW. I didn’t do anything after eating except watch TV, a documentary on Stephen Fry sort of made it worse, then read in bed until sleep was unavoidable.
I fucking hate Monday.
This is the only solution, the quite horrific, wonderful Wendy O Williams with her popular beat combo. Turn it up.