Sorry this is late, my spine is behaving like a rattan, I had to get out of bed and lie on my fucking kitchen floor for half an hour until I was no longer the shape of an organic cucumber. Following a series of clicks and cracks my vertebrae found its way home and was able to come into work following a hair raising ride in on my black bitch (nearly hit a person wandering in the road, it was so close I could taste the breakfast on his breath)
Following my cycle back home last night I resigned myself to a night of writing. I’d barely sat down when I got a call from Jerry, my mate from NYC who I’m supposed to be doing the bike trip with. He asked if I fancied a beer and a curry, how could I possibly refuse? We arranged to meet at Sloane Square and we walked up the Kings Road in the warm evening sunshine. Chelsea was chocca with quality blart, Ferrari’s, Lamborghini’s and Bentley’s rumbled past, shortly the latter contained Jerry and I ostentatiously gliding up the street in the lap of luxury. It’s an entirely differently world to Tooting that’s for sure.
The food at the curry house was sublime, we ordered a large variety of Indian delights and drunk Cobra, then Rose, with our courses. Full to bursting we decided to round the evening off at Gerry’s hotel. The lounge bar is opulent and the long balcony overlooks Chelsea harbour, as calm as a milk bowl with a soft light lazily bouncing of the dark water, the perimeter of the harbour contains a slew of large luxurious yachts overseen by clean, modern buildings, one of them being the hotel I was watching from. Gerry and I drank Jack Daniels and Coke and discussed the bike trip. To cut a conversation short we’ve missed the boat in terms of the weather, perhaps more pertinent, Gerry feels he needs a bit more time on a bike. He’s been riding for years but hasn’t clocked up a quark of the miles I’ve done. Bottom line is the trip will happen next year; in the meantime I’ll probably pop out to see him in Montauk in October to fuck about on his yacht.
My weekend has been screwed into the floor, it’d be alright if, not sitting in the middle of it like tramps sick, was an appointment with the last night of the BBC Proms. I’ve been to this jingoistic jiltler now about 4 times, and each time I’m finding it harder to prevent myself from repeatedly screaming ‘pigcunt’ from the balcony during the nationalistic climax in the second half. The one saviour in all of this is free booze, I fully intend to overindulge (as usual) and play my favourite game of ‘sober or not’. It’s a dead simple affair, I try to act as sober as a pilot when I’m clearly so inebriated I can’t actually see, nor give a shit about, the inevitable faces of disapproval as I weakly clutch on to passing guests to remain upright.
I’ve decided to dedicate the whole week to motorcycle accidents, or not in this case. Fifteen seconds of something so staggering you’ll watch it over and over, would you care for some physics with that, sir?