My back isn’t good today so I’m in a less than favourable mood. In addition I have some sort of stomach disorder, I’ve been shitting through the eye of the needle for over 48 hours and I have cramps. Having a bad back and the cacks together isn’t good, the continual sitting down, standing up, the resulting twisting and bending to clean ones nipsy is fraught with pain. And there’s the real possibility of farting my disc out.
I think the source of said back grief was a combination of spending more than 5 mins in the van, gingerly walking through slush to the shops at lunch and the surprise realisation yesterday, in the office, that unless I was on a toilet in precisely three seconds I was going to fill my trousers with reduced Guinness. This desperation to make it to the chod-bin before one explodes can often cause one to forget about ones cocked vertebrae, don’t you know.
The stomach condition was temporarily relieved last night when I met my brother in a pub in Clapham. We had a few beers and, despite refusing to go to the bar or pay for a single round, we had a good night. The cunt.
On my return home I bathed, cooked up some dinner (surprising even myself because by this time I was a little tipsy and half forgot/remembered I was cooking) then clamped my headphones round my sweet little head and rocked the fuck out. Big mistake, half a bottle of wine was shoved into the equation and joints were sucked without regard to my increasing state of delirium. I re-discovered mid period Rush, decided that most of Metallica’s St. Anger is actually alright (I must have been squiffy) cooled my boots with Ian Brown and concluded with a Best of CBGB which is 2 CD’s of brilliance and joy.
I went to bed at some point between midnight and 2 and woke at 8.30 with my back trying to tie a knot in itself. I arrived late at work and started to write this. Mid way through my boss summoned me into his office to conduct an interview, I look like shite, am in a petulant mood, my back hurts and as I was called in by the boss I was fighting the flow of the Dirty Thames.
The female interviewee was genuinely startled by my presence. I humourlessly informed my boss that I couldn’t sit down because of my back, what I didn’t tell him was that I was also concerned that sitting down would release the vice-like arse-clamp currently preventing me from spraying his office with effulgent. The boss clearly wasn’t comfortable with me standing over him as I peevishly responded to the usual tit for tat questions of the shrinking interviewee.
Most of the jobs we do here revolve around classical music, it’s a badly kept secret that I don’t have any particular interest in this field so the boss made a quip along those lines. Instead of just going along with it my addled, pickled brain, back pain and shit drain all conspired against me. I shoved my hands into my pockets, turned down to face her and said, ‘I fucking HATE classical music’.
She looked more than a little distressed and my boss gawped at me with a mixture of shock and, worryingly, concern. He sensibly excused me. On my return to my desk I paused at the conveniences to tinkle liquid fire out of my bottom.
I feel ill.
