With more than a degree of trepidation, I opened the door to the pub.
Instantly my nose was filled with the lofty fumes of urea and disinfectant, it was utterly revolting. I could see clearly from one side of the bar to the other and the place was half full of sanctimonious old cunts slowly eating burgers with cutlery, an air of imperious victory rested over them like their vast napkins. These people hadn’t been to a fucking pub since Mr. Hitler turned up his toes.
Frank and I went to the back of the bar, both of us automatically scanning for ashtrays, both realising there was no point and sitting down confused with our Welton’s. Already a succession of, frankly, unwell looking gentlemen were passing us to gain access to the beer garden where the landlord had kindly set out umbrellas and tables for the crushed smoking community. Frank intended to hold out for a cigarette, I decided to wait until I’d downed the pint before having one, forcing Frank to do the same. We were both drinking faster than usual.
After 3 pints and 5 fags we headed off. It was odd, it didn’t feel as if we’d actually had our usual pint, felt more like an encounter in a branch of Little Chef. To make the matters worse the heaven’s opened and I actually got soaked to the skin on the way back home. Balls.
As I’d had a booze free Sunday, and because I’d got soaked, AND because, I decided to have a wine. The fucking wine box on the fridge (a survivor from Glastonbury) has a dribble in it, I figured I do that and call it a day. I poured one and prepared a disappointing supper of breaded Pollack (hey, that rhymes with a rude, fucking tastes like it too) and broccoli with a mustard sauce (seasoned cucumber mayo on the side with paprika) following a hastily organised bath that was more of a follow-on from my earlier drenching.
Wine boxes are very strange things. Even when they’re lighter than one of Joanna Lumley’s guffs they still vomit forth gallons of produce. I was working on the ‘well, this is the last drop’ basis. I was working on this basis for most of the evening. It wasn’t a sensible basis on which to work.
I wanted to watch Die Hard 2 but because a bunch of fanatics had taken it upon themselves to set fire to a car and themselves (self-immolation is so 60’s don’t you think) they cancelled it. The fucking cunts! What possible justification have ITV got for cancelling a film because some wanker misread a book and told all his mates… I mean what if that was their goal? Not to disrupt the rail, road and airport infrastructure of the UK, but to get ITV to cancel Die Hard 2 because they don’t like how much balder Bruce Willis’ has got since the first film. It means they’ve won doesn’t it.
I got in work late today due to my fucking back. At some point last night I sneezed hard and felt a twang in my lower back, I was half expecting it to be bad today, so at least I didn’t disappoint myself.