It was about 5 minutes following a lengthy discussion with a Glaswegian about extreme violence in Glasgow, much of which involved the gentleman I was talking to, when I informed him that he smelled.
For a split second I was looking into the icy jaws of a crippling hiding from Begby, unfortunately me for me the ‘nice’ that followed ‘smelled’ had been punctuated by a single unexpected cough. After composing himself and before telling me that it was Gucci he also told me how I was a thumb and a forefinger away from eating hospital food for 6 months.
Frank and I had taken the train into town and we were outside in the cold October night drinking and smoking with friends. Den, Harry, Liam were indoors as I chatted to Peter, the Glaswegian I met last week following a coincidental meeting in the pub, and his pal Gucci Sam, who, in spite of my near death at his hands, was a smashing chap.
Friday night whizzed past as is the case, why does an hour seem like 2 at work and 30 minutes during the weekend? I was home by 12.30 and taking advantage of the extra hour in bed on the Saturday night, rocked out until 4am. At some point in the small hours I made a crucial discovery. When drinking neat gin, put loads of ice into a tall glass and as the ice melts the drink automatically keeps filling! I have to say though, the magic only works when one is obliterated.
Saturday was pretty much dismissed, I wrote some stuff and did the usual shop, which was a fucking mess. I nearly abandoned the trolley twice due to a horrific hangover inspired panic attack; I went through the motions of the attack and following its final death throes right at the checkout in front of a visibly suspicious cashier, paid and legged it out.
I was back home in time for the X-Factor, a show that has polarised itself between a toe curling shit fest and extreme vomit inducing sycophancy. It’s like watching someone being resuscitated by the roadside, you don’t want to watch but by the same token you can’t tear your eyes off it. Myfwt joined me later and we ate soup and watched Trainspotting. Bit of a nostalgia trip for us, it’s not dated either and it helped round off a rather pleasant lazy Saturday.
Sunday morning was spent in bed watching Scrapheap Challenge, one of the must-do stations of the weekend before Myfwt departed for lunch with her family and I did some more writing. Annoyingly I’d totally fucked up on Saturdays shopping trip and made the unpleasant decision to go back to fucking Sainsbury and fill in the gaps of yesterdays spree compromised by panicking. It was a relatively simple operation and I did the whole thing in under 30 minutes.
I met my brother in what was the usual Sunday hostilely in Clapham Common at a quarter to 5. It was rather a shock getting off the tube and walking out into darkness, I brushed off the rain and comforted myself with the thought of a pint. My bro was already there and we settled down and caught up. As the pints flowed the conversation took on an emotional bent, I realised that I was much more pissed than I ought, by pint 4 I was utterly fucked, actually, so was my bro. I should imagine the weekends refreshments had caught up with me, it didn’t stop me knocking back a final whisky but the upshot was a half blind zig zagging piss pot who can’t recall getting home. I do remember briefly meeting my bro’s missus on the street and trying hard not to slur and fall over. It was only 9pm.
Despite my condition I managed to eat something before I went to bed. Sitting here at my fucking desk writing this now I’m not sure how I feel. I don’t feel sick or have a headache but I do feel a bit vague. It’s Monday christing morning, the worst part of the week, at least with a hangover it may pass with indifference.