I’ve just had a very harrowing cycle ride into work. A car jumped a red light on a pedestrian crossing and very nearly hit me and two fellow rat racers, if it wasn’t down to our collective awareness of ‘Mmm, he’s not slowing down is he’ and taking evasive action one or all of us wouldn’t be whacking off to porn when we got in this evening. It was left to me to remind the motorist that he was a fucking cunt. The cycle that followed was bloody hard going too; I had a very heavy weekend, far heavier than usual and taking into account the new cleaner Piqued, as of late, I paid for my sins with interest.
Friday afternoon was extraordinarily busy in the office; this wasn’t necessarily a bad thing because the upshot of such activity equals cold hard cash. With this joie de vivre in place Frank and I caught the tube to Clapham in the evening to meet Harry in the boozer by Clapham Common. This pretty much set the tone for the weekend to come, conversation, giggling and, of course, drinking. We were lucky to grab a table on our arrival as the place was heaving by 9pm. The clientele are not really my type, they consist of largely well to do 20 to 30 wotnots, you get quite a few suits and lots of public schoolboy swaggering. The girls are pretty but conceited; most dress like utter prats but the place is well mannered enough for them sit about with being harangued against their will.
Frank and I took a late tube home, both of us plastered. I alighted at my stop. It was raining but the air was fresh, I felt good as I wandered up my street to my door. Big mistake feeling good when you know you don’t have to get up the following day and you decide to investigate the Subhumans album that arrived in the post that morning. Wine happened. When I went to bed it was daylight.
I was woken at 1pm by Myfwt coming in, she was in a similar condition to me. I got up showered, shat and shaved and ate some peanut butter on toast with tea. Myfwt lay down on the couch like the Lady of Shallot and we decided we were good only for TV, or a movie. I had Lucky Number Sleven in a pile of DVD’s, I’d not seen it because it looked shite, I don’t even know how I acquired it. Fuck my old boots it was actually really quite good. By 5.30 Myfwt had fawned off and I was feeling well enough to undertake the Sainsbury run. A mistake.
I’ve realised that my panic attacks are largely (not exclusively) derived from alcohol leaving my system. In essence at about the time I begin to feel better, I’m due a panic. I had one in Sainsbury, a really big nasty hairy freak out that I fought so very hard, on two occasions I had to seek refuge in the toilet, splashing my face and wrists with water hoping that my progressively filling trolley wouldn’t be commandeered by some officious git before it passed. When the third wave came in I had nearly finished purchasing but still, I so very nearly left.
I made it back to the van feeling better and drove back to the flat. After unpacking the shopping I walked up the road to meet Frank in the local as the last vestiges of fear exited my system. It would have been alright if just Frank and I been left to our own devices, but mid through the second pint Jamie called to announce he would be joining us to. This was of course great news, despite remotely watching my Sunday, after being produced with a flourish, to shatter into a tiny million billion fragments.
Jamie, like myself, is a very thirsty gentleman. This alone means that he and I have a very enthusiastic time of it in bars, add the fact that Jamie is soon to be a dad, that I was already 2 pints down before he arrived and his very persuasive, insistent generosity ensured that I don’t actually remember getting home, though I do remember calling a big skinhead a potty mouth and enthusiastically hugging Jamie in the street. Sensibly Frank had left us to it a long while before.
I was supposed to attend a barbeque yesterday, needless to day that didn’t happen. I got up at 4 in the afternoon feeling ravaged but having slept through most of the hangover I just had to deal with the fucking panic attack which began, uniquely, in the fucking bath and prepare dinner, which cured me of all my ills.
Myfwt came over at 6.30 and we ate roast chicken with all the required extras, it was lovely. She had a few G&T’s (actually, she did a commendable job) and I enjoyed a few glasses of wine, I was rather restrained, largely because I didn’t fancy a hung over panic attack at work.
Still, due to the weekend’s exuberance, the cycle here was a fucking slog. I nearly vetoed the bike in favour of the black bitch but it’s a beautiful day so I forced myself onto the former. Towards the end of the journey I was just getting into my stride, nature buzzed and scurried about me a black and white cat lying in the towpath catching the sun…with all of it’s internal organs fucking hanging out. Jesus.
RIP Ingmar Bergman, you were hardly a barrel of laughs but fuck me, if one gave you a bit of an effort, one was richly rewarded
Oh, RIP Mike Reid, the original cockney wanker
Anyone else? I don’t think these chaps are too far off…