In which I’m drunk and whipped.

Friday night carried a few nice surprises with it. Started off with a couple of pints with a friend, who I’ll call Phill (as in Jupitus, who he bears a resemblance to, or John Goodman circa The Big Lebowski), before everyone else came. He’s one of those rare people in life who is just an all round sound cunt, who nobody dislikes and is naturally hilarious, without being big headed or really aware of how he’s being funny. Few pints later and everyone else had arrived and Marsha pulled out a bag with a few presents in it from everyone for my birthday, little things like novelty soap, chocolates, shower gel inside a statue of The Stig and some test tube shots.

The nicest thing though had to be a comic that Hans had made out of pictures from my facebook of all of us and my family. The title was “Johny vs The Tories” and revolved around me putting a superhero squad together to defeat the evil emperor in the form of David Cameron. It no doubt came from my many rants during college and nagging at Marsha constantly about how she was a right wing bitch, in the most loving way of course. (It worked too, she went from a unionist centre-right party to the SNP, a separatist socialist party, enjoying their first majority government in a “fair” system designed to make sure the chances of them doing so stayed slim. Though the fact she was a student living on a bursary, not getting money from daddy and needing half the rent on her flat paid by the council probably showed her the upside of helping your fellow man.) The comic means a lot to me, gosh darn if stuff like that doesn’t make me feel all soft and fluffy inside. Shows that someone knows you, you know? Those few pages of A4 paper stapled together are better than something big and showy any day. Though, some things do come close…

We’d moved from Wetherspoons over to a pub across the road as there was (apparently) an ex of one of the folk in our group they wanted to avoid. So off we went, a few more pints were had and then the DJ shouted out my name. I thought that they were going to end up singing happy birthday or something and cause me to die of embarrassment, what happened instead was far, far worse/better. I stood up, deciding to take it like a man, expecting the DJ to keep on talking, then saw a woman standing dressed in what I’m fairly certain wasn’t a standard issue police uniform next to an empty chair in the middle of this crowded pub with a mic in one hand and a pair of handcuffs in the other, asking if I’d been a bad boy. I’ll not go into too much detail, as some things are best left in my mind and in the pictures and videos that are currently residing in too many phones. Suffice to say, it involved those handcuffs not being nearly big enough, a belt as a leash, a quiet thank you to God for making sure I wore my good boxers that night, and one of the finest bodies mine eyes have ever had the good fortune to see. Was vaguely aware of a guy with a video camera filming it all, I’m not sure if it’ll arrive in the post mailed to me, or maybe they’ll find it funny to send it to my mum or just keep a hold of it until the next house party and stick it on repeat. Whatever happens, I. Regret. Nothing. I’ve got Marsha and Belle (de Jour, natch) to thank for it. They know me too well!

After the pub we’d staggered to my house so I could put in my stuff before we got the train to the Cathouse, Scotland’s biggest and as far as I know only rock club. Things around this point get a little bit hazy, though I do remember champagne on the train, a bladder killing queue to get into the club and a fuckton of dancing. Also some guy in the toilets shouting about being able to smell coke in the cubicles like they were fucking lavender scented candles. Met a surprisingly large amount of old school faces there as well, including one guy who slurred that he’d always meant to catch up with me to reminisce about the time I streaked in front of a bunch of visiting Italian students. Other than for rugby it’s the only time I’ve ever gotten into the papers, thankfully not named. Passed out on the night bus home, managing to float my way to Asda for some badly needed Oasis and crisps, part of my post-binge preparation to ensure that the next day doesn’t make me want to top myself.

Which I wasn’t far off from doing, I was a bit of a wreck. Aside from the usual weird dreams, which involved zeppelins flying over the Dover Cliffs and culminated in a different one about me hiding on a roof from a rampaging bear, which then climbed up the side of the house and was about to bite me before I realised that hey, it’s just a fucking bear, and grabbing it by the scruff of the neck and throwing it back in it’s cage, I had trouble keeping myself in the one spot for more than twenty minutes but a complete inability to get out of the house which the odd attack of wondering where the fuck I was. Like I said, was a wee bit rough. Had an awesome night though.

Went to a sort of military fitness group yesterday, so suffering again today, more in body than mind this time. It’s one of those things where 40 odd people are getting shouted at in public, doing press ups and sit ups. My dad had signed me up for an induction last night and moaned at me to make sure I went as he goes a lot. Wasn’t as bad as it could have been, the people were friendly enough and it wasn’t anything I hadn’t done before, not really sure it’s for me though. They didn’t try to act as if they had a secret method of curing all your troubles either, it was just “exercise more, get fitter.” It’s all exercises that I can do myself though, and at the danger of sounding like a misanthrope, I don’t see the point in doing it in a big group of people when there’s no goal at the end of it. Not like you’re a team and this is part of training, feels like I’d be better off just going to a gym and working on my own. I’d be tempted at going back to it, but with my dad offering to pay for it and him saying they take six months up front it’s really too much for something there’s a chance I’d end up hating. Train by yourselves, cunts!