I’ve been receiving some complaints recently (all of which technically come from the voices in my head) that my blog is full of boring, mundane bollocks. My multiple personalities really aren’t happy about this state of affairs. They’d really like me to write about something a little more interesting than my crap week job hunting.
“Why can’t you find something more interesting to write about?” They say. “In fact, why don’t you go off and actually do something more interesting than spending 6 days of the week trapped in your house” the helpfully suggest. “We’d just like to see some of the outside world once in a awhile.”
"But,” I retort “I took you all off out to Greenwich at the weekend. That’s got to qualify as going out?”
“Well yes, technically it does, but what’s the point” They ask.
“What do you mean what’s the point. Greenwich is out, it’s exciting. Well, not exciting, but its gotta be better than Harrow” I reply.
“Oh yeah, it’s better than Harrow, but what’s the fucking point of going out when you always get so pissed that you can’t remember vast portions of the evening.”
“Well, you have a point, but it’s not like I’m going to stop drinking is it? It’s the only way I can cope with the tedium of the rest of the week.”
“ Well, you could always make the rest of the week more interesting couldn’t you?”
“Would that I could, but interesting costs money and, in case you haven’t noticed, I have no job, and therefore no sodding money.”
“Well why don’t you just get a job.”
“Oh if it were that easy everybody would have one wouldn’t they.”
“Everyone does, except wasters and tramps.”
“Sorry, are you calling me a tramp.”
“ Not at all, but you could put a bit of effort into it couldn’t you.”
“Effort. Effort! I’ve put shitloads of effort into it, but everybody is fucking bollocks and doesn’t want to know. It’s not as if you’ve come up with any bright ideas is it? You just sit there in my head like inert passengers on a tourbus, gawking gormlessly at everything. You’re good at pointing out the problems, but don’t have any fucking solutions do you. Wankers.”
See, I’m clearly going a bit mad (could I be certified for transcribing a conversation with the voices in my head. Would a blog entry be enough to convince the authorities’ that I had gone completely hat stand and needed chucking in a loony bin for my own safety and the safety of others?)
Still, before the men in white coats come along I’ve git a little bit of time to finish this post. The conversation with the voices in my head did at least impart some degree of truth about my non-housebound activities; I did indeed go to Greenwich.
It was all in aid of a friend’s birthday. A friend who lives just across the tunnel from Greenwich on the Isle of Dogs. A friend who wanted to watch the Rugby, England vs. Scotland I think. Unfortunately this friend of mine is the least organised person in existence and hadn’t actually worked out if there was a pub in Greenwich that was actually playing the match. Obviously all the good pubs in Greenwich didn’t have TV’s so our more familiar haunts like The Gypsy Moth and The Admiral Hardy were immediately precluded. After wandering all around Greenwich we found two pubs playing the rugby. The birthday boy had decided that he wanted to be somewhere with lots of “fit birds”. Now in my opinion nobody should use the word “birds” when describing women. It just makes you sound like a chauvinistic moron. It’s even worse, however, when the person saying it is a public school educated toff (and I say that with the greatest affection). Then it sounds indescribably stupid. There ware only two pubs showing the game, The Mitre and The Spanish Galleon. The Mitre may have been an old mans pub, but at least it wasn’t, unlike the Spanish Galleon, an old man's pub that smelled of fish. I conveniently found myself a seat facing away from the Rugby. It’s not that I hate rugby, it’s just that it bores the crap out if me. It just seems to me that Rugby is just an excuse for ex-public school buy repressed homosexuals to grope each other under aegis of participating in a manly spectator sport. I once said that whilst observing the Royal Holloway Rugby team engaging in drinking games (clearly a form of public foreplay) at the Stumble Inn. Obviously not to the rugby players themselves. They’d probably pummel me to the ground for even suggesting that they have a predilection for man on man loving. Of I did subsequently hear that, after university a whole bunch of them came out, including one particularly insufferable wanker and former SU president who one called me gay after I tried to stop him from drunkenly trying to crack in to a friend’s girlfriend. Oh the irony. Clearly this was a man looking to be shot down. Surely the fact that she was talking to me might have suggested the possibility that the poor girl was attached (even if it wasn’t to me. Unfortunately. If memory serves me, she was extremely hot). Of course that was probably the point, part of his way of hiding him innate desire for cock. For how could he be gay if he was trying to crack on to beautiful, but tragically unavailable women? Absolute genius. Of course what does it say about me? After all, I fancied her? Oh well, I’m sure I only fancy unattainable girls just because of both my fear of commitment and my desire to keep my broken heat in a few pieces of possible. Or something. Anyway, let’s get back to Greenwich.
So, the rugby was on and I wasn’t watching was it. This next bit is going to sound indistinct owing to my decision to stop naming names. Then, as England marched on to their inevitable victory against the Scots, a work colleague of my friend turned up.
In the weeks since I last saw her a lot's happened. I’ve had mixed feelings about the whole thing owing mostly to her complicated situation. One of my main rules is to not make any kind of romantic engagements with attached women. I probably mentioned that I managed to break that rule first time out, but since I was completely unaware of the girls attached status I can hardly shoulder any blame. But, once again, I digress. My main problem was trying to work out if she fancied me. I can usually work that sort of thing out pretty quickly. And I’m usually pretty quick to exploit it too. But with her, I’m stumped. There are just too many mixed messages. When we’re out, we talk a lot and we seem to get on. She’s texted me (a lot, we had a 20 text conversation one evening), but even after all that I’m just not getting that final “go ahead” signal that would push the whole thing over the edge. Maybe I’m just misreading the whole situation because she’s from a completely different country and culture. Bah. Regardless I’ve decided not to bother. Her situation is far too complicated (beyond simply having a husband back home. There is something that allows me to put aside my moral objections should I wish. Unfortunately I can’t talk about specifics here. But that’s irrelevant since I’m not gong to do anything anyway.
So, she walked in and started talking to me. I was actually a little less talky than usual, preferring to talk to another friend about his prospective new car. Then I left him to chat with her through both drinks and dinner. Of course that’s would have provided me with the perfect opportunity to figure out exactly how she works. Unfortunately I squandered the opportunity by getting riotously drunk. Subsequently all I could say was they chatted and sat a little closer than everybody else at dinner. It all looked kind of flirty to me, but then, that was no different to how she’d been with me in the past. So, inconclusive.
After that, we went to dinner.
Dinner was nice, if a little expensive for me. We went to Tex-Mex Restaurant, Cafe Sol. I had chicken fajitas along with more alcohol; appropriately enough some bottles of sol. I also remember somehow drinking a Margarita though I have no idea why. Still, it was pretty nice. It kind of tasted like a melted strawberry Slush Puppy. Yummy.
Another pub and another drink followed as did a trip to the off licence to pick up two bottles of wine, one white and one red. Then we were off back to my friends flat to finish the evening. The red wine went quickly so I opened up the white. It taste all that good, but I just put it down to bad wine. I considered leaving it, but I’m not one to waste good (or apparently bad) alcohol.
Fortunately I was staying over, so a slow, agonising tube ride didn’t await me, at least not until the next day. Another friend was staying overt too. Now I could have remembered this bit wrong (I wasn’t exactly on top form) but the girl friend (not girlfriend) asked to stay over as well. I’m reasonably sure that my friend with the flat told her that there was no point in her staying since she only lived ten minutes away. Then, as I recall, he pretty much kicked her out. I could, of course be wrong. Retrospectively I wish I’d offered to walk her home. Had I been a little less addled it would have occurred to me to offer (maybe I did, who knows). Of course if there had been any kind of altercation I’d have inevitably been more useless than usual. Any potential assailant would have found me to be an extraordinarily easy target.
Much of what happened after that is a bit of a blur. I think I may have been a little sick (in the toilet thankfully) but I was at least competent enough to unfold the sofa bed (my roommate for the night having already collapsed on the companion non-bed sofa). I’m not usually a good sleeper, but that evening sleep came very easily. Waking up the next day however, was far from pleasant.
My head hurt, and it only got worse as the morning progressed. I wasn’t exactly looking forward to the train ride home. The trip was made even more difficult by the fact that I’d agreed to relieve my friend of his old PC in the home that I might find some of the parts useful and sell the rest. It was a really good quality computer case too, made as it was, from tough steel, which obviously meant it was extremely heavy. Carrying it across London wasn’t easy, especially since I had to repress the urge to throw up every time I bent own to pick it up. The violent swaying of the train carriages didn’t help matters either and every time they jerked from side to side I felt as if I was going to vomit.
But I finally made it back. And promptly puked in the loo. Bed until about 3.30 followed. I’m never drinking so copiously on an empty(ish) stomach again.
Well, not until next week anyway.
