I feel fucking shit.
For a kick off the weather. Last week it was rather nice over here in London, it was actually quite warm, very sunny and everyone was aware of the days starting to get longer. The social atmosphere had subsequently changed; people began to engage with one another, that included half arsed smiles to strangers, half-arsed they may have been but there was ‘something’ there, yeah? A glimmer of a hope?
Now it feels like we’ve been plunged back into the middle ages, the sky is the colour of a geriatric residents hair, the fucking wind has teeth in it -biking in this morning I felt like I’d been peeled and submersed in bleach- and London has returned to it’s default mode of frowns, fuck you’s and stiff middle fingers from vehicle windows. I don’t think women under the age of 30 exist anymore; they only seem to appear when the sun is out.
I knew last night was going to be shit. The hangover from the weekends joys were still fussing over me in the afternoon, so I took the decision to abstain from booze in the evening. This rarely occurs and to be quite honest it’s a frightening prospect to spend an entire night gawping into the face of sober reality, to the point that I decided that I would drink just to stave off the potent of doom that exists when one isn’t giggling at the rapid succession of quick-fire jokes in ones brain.
I got home and arranged the bath to coincide with a rather pompous literary programme on Radio 4, it had it’s moments and I surprised myself on a couple of occasions because I’d actually read some of the books being discussed. After a highlight-of-the-evening supper, which I ate with fucking water and Jeremy Paxman I rolled a small joint, I ignored the Fleurie that was threatening to rape the Tempranillo and Cab Sauv unless I drunk him, and ended up watching a baffling programme on Channel 4 about the genetic modification of barnyard animals. They called the programme ‘Animal Farm’, ooh, how clevah.
It was utter shit, Giles Coren, food critic, represented the ‘No, Gen Meat isn’t on yeah’ and this baffling hoity toity type who spoke like a cross between Joanna Lumley and a Cornish fisherman who was all in favour of the glowing bunnies and bald chickens. The arguments for and against were made utterly irrelevant by me deliberating over the important issue of would I or would I not have a go on Cornish Lumley. For what seemed like an age there wasn’t a crucial ‘deciding’ shot of her arse, though earlier I’d pretty much established her tits would be a bit saggy but not enough to negate the crux of the issue. After what seemed like an age a good 2 second shot of her buns as she exited a cow shed concluded that I would, and I switched over to catch the end of a thoroughly depressing BBC2 Programme about a young women who’d been killed by some teenage yobbo in a souped up Trebant, or something.
As the evening dragged on the desire to drink waned slightly as I was being geed on by the reality of having made it thus far without one. Besides I was exhausted so I went to bed at 11 and watched Japanorama in bed. Shortly after I fell asleep and dreamt of the Artic Monkey’s foolishly eating a variety of huge fluorescent cakes in a vast hotel in Shibuya, they made such a mess the little bastards. Actually, I was frankly shocked and disgusted by their attitude and may well have to reconsider purchasing ‘Favourite Worst Nightmare’, ironically.
