It’s very frustrating having some news and being unable to divulge said news so one doesn’t compromise oneself, well I have news that I’ll only be able to broadcast after the event has taken place. It’s neither good nor bad, just terrifying. I’m terrified and will be until the aspect of my news has been undertaken.

Unlike me, I suggest you don’t dwell on this, but when I refer to something wicked approaching you’ll know that it’s of major concern in my day-to-day comings and goings.

My entire weekend has been dominated by it, there have been moments of joy (usually when pissed) dismay (when pissed and sober) and split second moments of acceptance that evaporate like petrol. It’s fucking dreadful, but also cool. Maybe. I don’t know and this is why I’m terrified.

I discussed this matter with Frank on Friday over a pair of hastily swallowed ales before returning home to unravel what we’d discussed. Needless to say I had a few more ales (‘sensibly’ spurning the wine) and wound up on Youtube until the wee hours looking at some material that I didn’t know existed, the fruits of this research will be the music cause celebre this week. I woke on Saturday feeling wonky but well and did some writing. My desk was covered in post-it notes from the previous evening as I tried to face up to a responsibility, the one that is terrifying me, and I thank the person for their invention as there was useful shit amongst the drunken babblings.

After a fat smokie kipper I took myself off on my black bitch to visit my parents, sister and niece whose now decided I’m all right. For the last few weeks I’ve been Satan incarnate in flesh, the very second my shadow had fallen over her face she’s shrieked like a two-toothed banshee with such force I thought her little head might pop off like a purple champagne cork. Now I can’t put a foot wrong, even when I actually did treading on her hand, she squawked, I said sorry, she laughed.

After cleaning my bike, which was a complete waste of time as it fucking rained on my journey home, I said a hasty farewell and shot off home in order to meet Gerry in the pub for a pint, he’d just finished his shift and as he passed by chez piqued it seemed only stupid to not take him up on his kind offer of refreshment.

I got back home and cleaned the flat, did some more work and ate a lamb and mint sandwich. James had called to see if I fancied meeting him later in the evening, aware that I’d not seen him for a while and our combined liking for beer I thought it wise to eat before I went out rather than grab something after. It was a sensible course of action on my part as I assumed we’d push the boat out.

What I’d not taken into consideration was his lack of recent drinking practice, James has a six month old son and hasn’t stretched his legs in a while…

We were already a bit pissed when we got back from the pub after 4 pints, it was approaching midnight and James decided he’d have a can or two then catch the 1.05 bus back to his house. Unfortunately it wasn’t beer we drunk but a bottle of Cava I’d stored in the fridge for emergencies, this went down a treat and as there happened to be one more we took that on board too.

We chatted about stuff all the while steadily smoking dope. By 2am James was muttering something about ‘getting a cab later’. Perhaps when he fell in the bath shortly after whilst negotiating his zipper, there was an enormous crash and I walked in to find him giggling on his back with his head between his legs, I should’ve thought twice about a final Claret nightcap. All’s well in hindsight isn’t it.

Thirty minutes or so later James went extremely quiet and turned sheet-white. It was clear he was passing out; a rush of adrenaline spurned me into action, quickly I prepared the sofa bed and attempted to get his wife’s phone number to tell her James would be crashing at mine. I walked him to the lounge from the kitchen where we’d been ensconced since our return from the pub and he fell onto the sofa bed with a thump and began moaning. I went to the airing cupboard to get some bedclothes and just as I’d decided that, perhaps, I should get a bucket just in case he threw up there was a single loud and decidedly wet cough from the living room.

I ran in. I was too late. James was still sprawled in the bed but had been joined by a vast lake of vomit with all bits of sick in it. I grabbed his head and lifted his gaping mouth over the bucket where he let rip. The volume of his evacuations was astonishing, a combination of rumbling groans, high-pitched yelps and thunderous expletives. I’m very confident that the next-door neighbours would’ve assumed we were bumming.

James was violently and noisily ill for a good 20 minutes before finally collapsing on the living room floor still grasping onto the bucket like one would a buoy in treacherous seas, he was completely unconscious. I arranged him into the recovery position before I too gave in to the vast quantities of booze and dope we’d imbibed and flaked out on the floor a few feet from him, though I woke up in my bed, fully clothed and very hungover.

A about 6 am James appeared in the bedroom and said something before quietly leaving. I eventually got up at midday; there was lunch to prepare after all.

My brother joined me at 1.30, by this time I’d made an entire Sunday lunch, roast chicken, potatoes and veg though I can barely remember undertaking any preparation or cooking. Despite this it was fucking lovely and following a poo after the Moto GP I was pretty much back to normal. My bro hung about until 4 and left me alone in the flat complete my duty of recovery. I watched a bit of TV, wrote what you’re reading now and made chicken soup with remains of lunch.

I had an idle Sunday evening and went to bed early feeling shattered. And still terrified.

Before I indulge you in the youtube stuff I mentioned just now have a look at this. If you’ve never ridden a bike it sort of feels like this, even the end has a ring of truth to it. One of my favourite bikes of all time, make sure you’ve your speakers on full to hear that engine…