gitatronic shirtings a la whist der nonclementure

By anyone’s standard’s, especially Oliver Reed or Dylan Thomas, I had quite a boozy weekend. So much so I decided to take Sunday off. A day of kippers, roast dinners, MotoGP and sofas. Recuperation.

My weekend started well despite the horrors of the day. Putting all that shit behind me I met Frank in the pub for a pair of ales before coming home and gorging ourselves on corned beef bubble n’ squeak and dropping tins of beer like they were fucking biscuits. In our enlightened state we found the best course of action was to view a bunch of videos on you tube of people watching Two Girls and One Finger, something I’ve no intention of doing especially after watching people physically reacting to what they were seeing by spontaneously vomiting. Frank and I could barely breathe we were laughing so much.

I woke at Saturday feeling shocking. I aided myself with bacon, eggs, sausage, mushroom and toast before setting off to the Sainsbury to pick up some essentials, I wandered about the store like I’d had a stroke but basically achieved what I’d set out to do. Mercifully by the time I met Frank at the tube by 3.30 I was on the mend.

Regular readers of this garbage will know of a chap called Napoleon Cockaparte, he has a permanent link to his blog on the right of this and is regular contributor of Watch With Mothers. Readers will also be aware that at times he and I have engaged so to speak.

Frank and I arrived at Russell Square and met NC and SH in a pub. After a few ales we slipped into NC’s hotel and spent a couple of hours jabbering on about suchwhat and then went back into the evening to collect more beer and some fucking awful Italian food. Ironically (regulars should know why) NC’s Penne all’Arrabbiata was sensational (!), but I ate one of the worst Quattro Stagioni’s I’ve ever had. In stark contrast to last weeks post when I had one of the best, this thing wouldn’t pass for ‘Italian pizza’ anymore than I would El Duce. SH’s choice seemed to be adequate as well but Frank drew the joker, it was literally inedible, a sort of jumble of fried polenta (Jesus help us) a sausage made of pigs udders and some tinned broad beans all plonked onto some shit crockery.

If nothing else it sated our appetite and enabled us to continue drinking. We arrived at some huge bar with an outdoors where we happily drank, smoked and chatted. A hen night party turned up, on my way to getting some more ales I wished the bride to be ‘good luck’ but it unintentionally came out as ‘good luck, bwarr hahahaha’, which didn’t go down at all well and I spent the rest of the night subject to steely glares from her fucking mother and coven of hens. I was beyond care, I moved on to whisky and gingers, SH and NC insisted I miss my tube and kindly promised me some cash in order to absorb the costs of getting a cab. By closing time, 1, or something, we were asked to leave but as we were going NC, pint still in hand, knocked over a bar stool which provoked the staff.

Outside now, NC was curtly asked to give back the glass, which was still half full of beer. This didn’t go down well. The staff came out of the bar to watch NC drink his pint as he spat considered objections in their direction much to the amusement of SH and I. Suddenly one of the staff exploded in rage, ‘you’re a mother fucking cunt!’ this prick yelled. Needless to say NC was les than impressed by being called a ‘mother fucking cunt’ and the staff member was bundled back into the bar by some of the staff for his own safety and door partially closed to prevent NC from entering to pull this chaps head off. Having lost their case the manger himself patiently waited for NC to finish his pint, the glass was returned in one piece and off we went.

After saying good-bye to my posse I faced the night alone. As I’d expected there wasn’t a cab in sight, after half an hour the one I managed to flag down refused me as it was ‘sarf of da rivah’, I called him a cunt and carried on. I walked over Waterloo Bridge stopping to admire the beautiful view and happened upon some illegal operator who agreed to take me home for an extortionate 40 fucking quid. It was gone 3 by the time I stumbled back. I poured myself a drink and flipped on the TV in time to watch some Olympic swimmer (two readers of this will find this ironic) make history.

Oh, NC and I were discussing this band btw. The video is priceless…