I’m feeling rough, a bit iffey. I’ve just taken a shit, which, in terms of the time of the day is highly unusual. I never poo at this time of the day. What’s the matter with me?
In addition to the odd plop schedule I’m feeling dizzy and have just had one of those weird little trips. They are impossible to describe but, essentially, they begin all of sudden, they are wholly incapacitating and they are both very pleasant and vomit inducing all at once. They last for no more than a minute and I’ve no idea what the fuck they are.
I cycled in today and I am really paying for it. This is the first Monday I’ve undertaken such a task for over a year. I’m fully aware that I’m hungover, though not critically, but oddly it only came on 15 minutes after I got off the bicycle. This fact alone is making me nervous and on top of that I feel disconnected and weak.
I had a splendid weekend. I left work a little early on Friday in order to be in Covent Garden in good time to meet my bro. We convened at 5.45 in our usual boozer and had a few pints. It was a glorious evening, not too hot and the sun seemed to take a while to set. It could’ve been July. Just as dusk settled we decided to have dinner at Browns, I don’t normally do names but the food was so fucking awful its worth mentioning. Despite this it didn’t put us off from having a very civilised evening, the wine was jolly enough and we were able to finish off the night sat at the brass-topped bar trying to digest the muck we’d eaten. Shortly before leaving my bro’s missus came to join us following an unfulfilling night on the tiles with colleagues and we all managed to get on the last tube leaving from Leicester Square, which was rammed with drunks, like us.
I woke relatively early the next day as I was meeting my friend (with tits). She and I had arranged for her to come over for breakfast before we went off shopping. Following smoked salmon and scrambled eggs, coffee and toast we set off. It was a gorgeous day, bright, sunny, warm and we were in fine fettle. Following a successful exchange of garments in Wimbledon village she and I drove to Clapham Junction as I needed to procure a new suit for a few major events over the next month. I have a black one I bought last year from Marks and Spencer which is okay I suppose but not really up to the mixture of forthcoming shenanigans . After a bit of too-ing and fro-ing and thanks to the advice of my friend (wt) I ended up purchasing a rather snazzy number and matching tie that will be ideal, despite the fact it’s a very dark brown and I don’t really go brown (though I have been known to, eh lads. When I say ‘eh lads’ I don’t mean with lads, lads).
After we’d had a pair of drinks overlooking a glorious Wandsworth Common she took me home and left. I didn’t like that bit. Undeterred I went directly out to meet my mate from up the road and his missus in pretty beer garden near my flat. After a chat and a few pints I popped into Tesco to get some odds and sods. Unfortunately as I was getting into my flat Cunt appeared.
I need to make one thing quite clear. Cunt knows I have a posh degree; therefore Cunt will automatically talk bollocks to me. He’ll try to make everything, anything a reason for hypothesis in order to appear ‘clever’. Instead what I get is a stream of utter drivel, incomprehensible ‘philosophy’, as he struggles to upwardly converge intellectually as well as verbally. Physically he looks as if in pain, eyes rolling to the heavens as if praying for some sort of inspiration or divine intervention when it dawns on the cunt that having your keys cut isn’t the fucking basis for a new world order. The worst thing is he won’t fucking stop, I should imagine a part of his fucking head is perpetually convincing him to keep going, whether he knows he’s talking utter shit or not is totally unknown, think along the lines of indefinate monkeys, time and the works of Shakespeare. After what seemed like an age I finally got into my flat. I ate and, like a fucking tool, went onto YouTube with a bottle of wine to check out some music, the fruits of which will be made clear at the end of this post. Either way at 4am I went to bed utterly shitfaced.
I got up on Sunday in time for the start of the Grand Prix, this was followed by some excellent motorcycle racing which I lazily watched with breakfast and cups of tea. My mate from up the road nipped over briefly to grab some CD’s and drop off some DVD’s and I popped off out in the van to help my bro and his missus move some stuff from one place to the other. Again, the weather was stunning, way too hot to be in the van but it gave me the chance to give it a spin and highlight a few niggles that need resolved before the festival. I’d have much rather had a bike ride to Box Hill I hasten to add but, well, needs must and all that.
I got back to the flat at 6, dumped the van and went off to the usual Sunday hostelry by tube to meet my bro with my mate from up the road. We had a jolly evening until all too soon it was time to leave and face the reality of a forthcoming Monday. Mercifully a double bill of Family Guy, in my opinion one of the funniest programmes ever to have been made, staved off the hideous fug of depression that descends on one in the course of a Sunday evening.
Doesn’t stop the reality of my being here today though. I still feel rough and need another shit. What on earth is going on?
Oh, just before I go, a new feature. I’ve decided to supply links to things on YouTube of musical interest. Don’t worry, it won’t all be ‘metal’ (not today anyway)