going down the pub

In the pub last night Frank cracked the bubo question. ‘Blocked sweat glands’ he mused convincingly, it all made sense. It’s only recently been warm enough to sweat; in addition I’ve been making more of an effort to make the cycle in proper exercise rather than just laboured transport, I wear a bandana that covers the lower half of my ear and my hair is long. Problem solved, worry over etc.,

Frank and I stayed for 3 pints, the Bombardier was off so we had to settle for Tribute and Deuchars, both a little tart and orangey for my taste but they slipped down nonetheless. I wobbled off home and took a bath.

I’d had a long day, not entirely unproductive, I managed to get closer to seeing the fucking project off, pointless relying on others to help, and at lunch took a trip to fucking Hersham, home of Sham 69 to pick up my Transit, which following the failure of it’s MOT had remained in the garage until the necessary issues had been ironed out. The bill was fucking £235.

The journey there was utterly unremarkable save for one incident. On the train from Wimbledon to Hersham I sat in front of a tall skinhead sort of wearing a suit, I’d say he was 19 or so. As soon as the train pulled away I knew he was a clicker. He whistled, beeped, whooshed and mimicked most of the passing sounds as we rattled through the suburban woo. At some point he got a call from what I could ascertain was his girlfriend, they chatted away and at one point he said ‘shut-up’, I heard her question him, ‘nah, don’t worry’ he said ‘wasn’t me, you know how it is…’

We got off the train and he asked me for a light, ‘don’t worry about the noises’, he said ‘bit mental ain’t I’.
‘You have Tourette’s mate, not your problem…’ I said, the lad seemed genuinely pleased at my identification of what is now a well-documented disorder.
‘Driving me mental it is, just off to the docs now to get some more meds, these ain’t working…’
He gave me directions to the garage and I bid him farewell. Some time ago I wrote about Tourette’s in WWM (link right). After my encounter with the lad on the train I can’t say I feel too proud of how I conducted myself on the website, however funny the disorder may appear to be. The reality of day-to-day life was clearly getting to him, it was written in his eyes, his brow, his sheepish smile…he didn’t swear once by the way.

When I got home last night Hot Fuzz was waiting for me. I decided after the bath, some roast chicken (breast wrapped in bacon with steamed courgettes and peas, lots of seasoning and a handful of freshly grated mature cheddar, no effort to make and it tastes fucking ace) and Big Brother which is becoming more and more chaotic, I’d give the film a shot. The wine left over from Wednesday (just over half a bottle) was sat partially in my glass and partially in my veins. Incidentally, with regard to breaking any rules about drinking wine alone, I feel exonerated, if I hadn’t have drunk it last night it would be vinegar by now…

A month ago I could’ve drunk 4 pints in the pub, downed a bottle of Fitou and still been able to, just about, focus on a film. After 3 pints and a glass I was pissed to the point of not being able to focus on the film to such a degree I gave up. I was also exhausted; I’ve been going to bed before midnight lately, this would have been fucking unheard of a few weeks ago. It would seem that my body is adjusting to my new, (slightly) healthier lifestyle.

I woke up with a mild hangover this morning, the bubo had burst in the night and had dried spume all over it, it felt like someone had glued a Monster Munch behind my lobe. I was up in time to shave, do some laundry and enjoy a good 15-minute shit with Viz and Today on radio 4.

On my cycle in this morning I saw that fat bastard I’d called a ‘fat cunt’ a few days ago. He passed me on the towpath without a word; in fact, he made a conscious effort to not look at me at all… So I gave him a hearty ‘good morning’ for the hell of it. Then I saw massive fucking crow picking at the guts of a mutilated dead rat

It’s a portent of doom, kids.

Have nice weekends; be careful, for fucks sake…

I went to a house party with Jimmy Percy once… he’s a bit of a tit