short, sharp break

I will not mention the F1 in todays post

After getting up and eating a very basic breakfast of fresh cheese bread and butter, Myfwt and I grabbed the tube and headed off to Angel in t’north London. Despite us drinking a rather large quantity of booze the previous evening and having had succumbed to the ridiculous game of Rugby in which England were given a fucking pasting, we were both remarkably well.

That Saturday we ate a carpet picnic, a rather lazy of way of eating that involves deli food laid out on the, well, carpet, and picked at. We had a selection of breads and cheeses, roll mop herring, smoked salmon, anchovy stuffed olives, marinade garlic, rocket and watercress, fresh sausage rolls and pub snacks. This was eaten with wine and the odd G&T and I should imagine the lengthy meal took much of the hangover in hand and dumped it in the North Sea on Sunday morning. Specifically during Scrapheap Challenge on More 4.

It was a glorious Sunday afternoon when we arrived at a rather splendid gastropub called The Duke of Cambridge. One of our friends had called on us to help celebrate her birthday with Sunday lunch and a few drinks on the side. Myfwt and I were early, despite being late, but were shortly joined by twenty or so other guests, most of which I knew quite well. Myfwt, my bro and I were sat at the end of the table where we were joined by a chap whose face was familiar but I couldn’t place. When we were introduced to each other we exchanged surreptitious glances, it then dawned on both of us that the last time we’d met he and I had got so utterly fucked we’d virtually forgotten our encounter though something told me it had been fun, mischievous even.

On his arrival I knew the day was gone, my intention of leaving the pub at 4 to return home in time for the Grand Prix was sliding out of reach. Pete is a Glaswegian film producer in his 50’s, he sports an Eraserhead shock of hair and is quiet clearly the last person you’d like to get on the wrong side of, however, he’s a funny, charismatic fellow with a magnetic personality and a like of the drink that puts me to shame. After 5 minutes of arriving he was drinking cider, champagne and Medoc in rotation.

Three hours after eating (I had roast beef, tough but delicious) most of the guests had left leaving a hardcore of 7 of us to carry on into the evening. I figured I could make it back in time to see the F1 highlights, so long as I didn’t know the result I’d be content. Myfwt was unwisely gulping back organic cider; I varied between wine and this rather excellent (organic) ale called SB and Peter was drinking anything he got in his hand. The birthday girl too was pissed but like the rest of us in congenial spirits, though she required a cab back home as she wasn’t safe for public transport, her head rested precariously out of the window as we waved her off. The rest of us chatted away until 11-ish when the pub closed. Myfwt had to hold Peter up on the walk back the tube station; by this time the latter was blowing bubbles and the former was a giggling mess. We put Peter on his train and went and caught ours home.

A few stops before Tooting the train stopped at a station and a load of Underground staff appeared with 2-way radios. For 10 minutes they arsed about while a load of us sat on the carriage watching a group of 5 lads falling over each other on the opposite platform. Being the inebriated gitface I was I decided to enquire as to why we weren’t going anywhere with an subtle ‘..some of us need .a fucking piss, lets get going…’ much to Myfwts and few passengers amusement. This didn’t go down will with some officious little skinhead employee who told me to sit down. I refused and I was informed that somebody was under the train. ‘Fucking rubbish’ I slurred back, pompously informing the tool that we’d have been kept in the tunnel if indeed someone was lying on the rails. I’m not entirely sure if my comment had any bearing on proceedings but the doors suddenly closed and we were off. Don’t let it be said that drunken behaviour is always as negative as The Daily Mail would have you believe, I got a result by be a belligerent and uncompromising. And pissed.

The weekend had started off in a fairly boozy manner; I met an old friend in The Intrepid Fox on St. Giles High Street and we had a pair of beers before walking into Chinatown for dinner. We selected a place that didn’t smell as if the carpets and walls were made from hot msg and ordered. It was an odd meal, despite the excellent company, some of the items were outrageously delicious or woefully poor, ‘crab roll tempura’ was a fucking deep fried crabstick, but all was made up for by the chilli and salt fried squid rings.

Laura and I chatted whilst I gulped my way through a half bottle of Saki, she and her partner are in the pornography business, the business side I hasten to add and it’s rather amusing having an adult conversation that is being punctuated by the aspect of red hot filth, literally an ‘adult’ conversation I suppose.

After a final glass of wine I bid my dining companion a fond farewell and wandered off to Piccadilly Circus to visit Virgin. I wanted to make 2 cd purchases for a tenner, and I was up for being open-minded, but first I wanted to stare at all the pretty lights and enjoy being from the city in which I was stood, well, weaving, a bit. I left Virgin wordlessly with ‘Close to the Edge’ by ‘Yes’ and ‘Blonde on Blonde’ by Dylan, both repurchases of course, I’m trying to modernise my tape collection. When I got home I rocked out, I began with ‘Yes’ (which I’d not heard properly since I was 15) and after many hours ended with The Subhumans in a joyous state of punk apoplexy.

Due to the Sunday I had Monday off, Myfwt took a half-day. We stayed in bed all morning groaning with hangovers before Myfwt took me to Clapham Junction on her way to work. I had a simple mission, go and pick up a present for my brothers birthday next week.

It had been a while since I’d been on an overground train. I was pleasantly surprised by the condition and comfort of the carriages. It was a lovely day and instead of reading my book (Samurai William, its superb) I found myself watching out of the window enjoying the passing scenery. Unfortunately my bro reads Piqued so my destination and purchase will have to remain, for now, confidential.

So, all is good dear reader. Or is it. I was woken up this morning 3 times in the small hours by Cunt playing his guitar, on the third occasion I was forced to get up and bang on the floor. This evening I will have to have a word with him, a task I dread because as soon and I look at his gormless idiotic face and find myself translating the grunting stream of psychopseudo gutmud that spills forth from his pestilent lips, I’m already thinking of how I can dispose of his vile cadaver.

Tune in tomorrow to find out what happened.

In the meantime.