Fucking Monday. I think I spent most of the weekend worrying about it, let’s face it, come 4pm on Saturday you’re already descending towards the bastard. It’s like being lowered slowly down onto a naked pensioner, you really don’t want to, you can see it coming, feel it getting closer and sooner or later you’re going to make hideous contact with it. Here I am back in the chair.
For those that regularly read this blog, I’ve decided to do away with the weekend one. It’s okay to do in the winter but with advent of fairly decent weather, longer days etc., (and the return of various motorsport fixtures) it’s a bit of a tall order. I’ll do what I can though.
Speaking of weekends… I left here on Friday, knackered. I usually insist that whatever state I’m in I haul my botty into town and welcome the weekend in. Not this time, I politely declined an offer by Swinsehead to eat some Japanese food in Soho preferring instead to return home and eat alone with a bottle of wine, largely because I couldn’t face the journey. At about 8-ish my mate from up the road called and suggested we have a couple in a local bar with his missus. I accepted, but stayed for just two as I was still feeling fucked and not socially inclined. On my return home I had a few more wines, watched a film of no fixed abode and hit the sack.
My hangover wasn’t too bad on Saturday, I got up, made tea, grilled a kipper and played with myself for half an hour. Much earlier than usual I did the weekly shop which was hindered by a large groups of mentally disabled adults (range of problems, I could clearly identify Down’s Syndrome, it was like a box of Quality Street, range of varieties but mainly fucking coffee) who’d been let loose by some work-shy carer. They moved as one barking unit in a group oblivious the world around them, which is fair enough as they were actually mental. What isn’t fair on me (and I presume other shoppers) was that there wasn’t someone there to ensure that they were being made aware of the world around and to stop the honking fight that nearly ensured over Cote d’Or and/or Cadbury in ailse 32.
Still, little could dampen my spirits. I was due to spend the afternoon with a lovely friend (with top bollocks, lads) and no sooner had I unpacked the shopping, cut the lilies there she was waiting outside. We went to a nearby shopping mall, a place despised by both but there were places in it that were of use and of mutual convenience -besides the mundane and ordinary have a habit of become highly entertaining when we’re out and about- a particular favourite being inappropriate public swearing, really it’s the key to a great day out. We had to get various gifts for a range of upcoming birthdays, my dad, her niece and, indeed, her, inter cut with some clothes shopping and trip to HMV for some tunes (Gang of Four and Enter Shikari, the first is fantastic (of course) and the latter I’m getting to grips with). On the way home we stopped off at a bar for a glass of champagne and a g&t and all too soon it was time to go our separate ways.
I got home at 6 and I arranged the evening with my mate from up the road and an old friend who always ensures the night will be thoroughly drunken and very long. We met in a pub near Tooting at 8-ish and drunk Old Speckled Hen, strong English ale which goes down smoothly and acts quickly. We three engaged in topics of the day, bantering about politics and laughing out loud at unpleasant jokes. The evening was a success and at about 12 we split, my old friend and I went back to the flat as we had an appointment with spliffs and shorts. He and I pushed on until dawn, both of us experiencing white-outs and near evacuations all under a barrage of grinding raucous rock music. When he left the sky was beginning to wake, I think it was 6 or so but because the clocks had gone forward it could’ve been 7 or 5. Either way I was obliterated.
I got up at 3pm the following afternoon still feeling ravaged. I had a bath, made a roast which went some way to sorting me out. I was due to meet my brother but the meeting was postponed, just as well in many respects and I bravely decided I was going to have an alcohol free evening, a tall order indeed on a Sunday with the naked pensioner becoming ever closer. Needless to say last night was shit, I felt restless and obscure, I couldn’t sit still, the TV was annoying, reading was a chore and to make matters worse I wasn’t remotely tired when I forced myself to bed at midnight. I lay awake for an hour and a half fighting the urge to take in a whisky.
Sitting here now I still can’t understand why when I don’t drink I feel as if I have been. I’m still dizzy, my head feels like it’s resting in a vice and I’m tired. I know it’s not a hungover-hangover because by 6pm last night I was so sober I went to the van to retrieve my bicycle in order to remove the rear wheel and fix a fucking puncture. I even took time to note down the size of the inner tube. That’s how normal I was (that’s normal right?).
On the plus side the week is choc full of drinking appointments so hopefully I won’t have to deal with sobriety for much longer, frankly it’s a pain but if I’m to carry on writing Piqued for a long while to come, suffering the odd night off is essential. Even if it is bollocks.
Morning.
