On the one hand, much of my weekend has been awesome; I went for drinks with my new work colleagues on Friday, dropped in at the Stratford for a half with Ian, Steve and Simon, and amused myself with nothing in particular upon returning home. Nice.
Then, on Saturday, Steve and I went looking at bikes before larging it up at Ian and Amy’s barbeque. There was beer (nice), a selection of meats (really nice) and a few shots of Unicum (oh god, why). I really cannot stress this enough, but there is never a good time to drink Unicum. It doesn’t matter if you’re already quite beered up; it is still a bad idea, a very bad idea. It does things, upsetting things, and you must remember this.
Having singularly failed to learn this lesson we went off into town to meet Tom and Clare who were down for the weekend looking at wedding venues. All of these things were splendidly enjoyable and nice. Granted, our – and by our, I mean the boy’s – conversation wasn’t something you’d want anyone else to ever hear unless they were in possession of a broken moral compass and a very open mind, but still, AWESOME. I do feel a little bad for not circulating much, but then you can’t always talk to everyone even though you’d like to.
But you get the gist though, yeah? I was out and about and having fun – something I’m not particularly good at – and ignoring the little voice that speaks of saying something regrettable or letting slip more than I intend. Usually, when I go out, I’m very conscious of the fact that alcohol has the potential to turn me into someone I don’t like. I mean, I’m already abundantly aware of the worst in me; I don’t need to go bringing it out with one beer to many, right? I certainly don’t need the mortifying guilt that follows in the wake of opening my mouth without engaging my brain.
Like I said though, not a problem this time around, good weekend was good and it was nice to see Tom and Clare. Obviously I could have done without falling asleep on the toilet when I got in, and also deciding that maybe the garden would be a nice place to sleep (which is was, coincidentally), but then you can’t have everything.
On the other hand, it is at this point that the weekend spirals down somewhat. On Sunday, having both returned home and maintained my intestinal fortitude – a decided rarity when I’ve drunk too much – I was forced to act upon the terrible feeling inside and run a nice warm bath in which to fall asleep before my head exploded. I opened the window, ensured that the bath was both bubbly and bathy, and proceeded to drift in and out of consciousness safe in the knowledge that, should I drown, it would be no worse than enduring a skull that had mysteriously become three sizes too small for my brain.
Sadly, this delightful reverie was ruined by a reminder that I live in a horrible part of the world where people raise children to be barely literate animals. Quite why a group of pre-teens felt the need to spend the entire afternoon bellowing “you’re a fucking cunt” and “fuck off, I fucking hate you, you cunt” I don’t know, but they did. All after-noon.
At one point I ventured outside, to retrieve some stuff from my car, and was met by the world’s smallest ‘gangsta’, in peaked cap and ludicrous golden chains, screaming obscenities at some other urchin for ‘disrespectin me, blud.’ Which, while I’m sure it is a terrible offence to commit, isn’t something that requires quite the level of invective used. To be honest, nothing short of genocide requires that level of swearorizing.
Later, just as I was finalising my plot to kill all of them in a particularly brutal and unjust way, some larger waifs arrived and removed them all to safety. Not that they ever knew they were in danger, that was the beauty of my plan, strike while they’re repeatedly kicking that steel shutter like an autistic mule, use the element of surprise, end them with fire.
I mean, conceivably the larger apes could have been parents come to take them back to no doubt loving homes, but it can be hard to tell at times. Essentially, I need to move. I’m too big a fan of peace and quiet to put up with this shit for much longer and the next person I see spitting in the street is going to get the face rubbed in it until I can see bone.
