The Aristocrats, nearly killing rats, and wanking into a bath mat.

I’m feeling a bit like a zombie right now, my arms weigh the same as a horse, my fingers are refusing to do what they’re told, my neck and shoulders feel like I’m carrying a rucksack full of rocks, and every thought that comes to mind has been dragged through a mile of treacle to get where it is. Not to mention I’ve got a feeling that my stomach is now as thick as the skin on a sausage, I’ve got a desperate need for water but I can’t bring myself to move and get it, and the night’s memories are popping up into my mind at random intervals solely to make me cringe. Was a blast.

Didn’t even go out to a club or anything, instead I found myself sitting in the house of a guy that straddles the line between friend and acquaintance but who I get on well with. I get a vibe off of him that he’s probably a racist, right-wing conservative desperately trying to hide in a philosophical, liberal body. I think it’s the poppy tattoo that’s causing it, along with a gut feeling that “the lady doth protest too much.” Still, he’s alright. The night almost started with a tragedy when I nearly sat the on the guy’s pet rat that was running loose on the couch. I swear that I seen a look of relief on the little creature’s face when I finally caught sight of it. Too many drinks were consumed far too fast, mostly because I was talking in the kitchen to someone as I was pouring my now customary JD and coke, and filled three-quarters of a pint glass with whiskey and didn’t want to go through the hassle of trying to pour it back into the bottle or just letting it lie there, resulting in me finishing the whole thing off in two glasses that I’d wanted to last the night. Instead of me sauntering vaguely downwards (I’m quotatious tonight) I plummeted into drunkenness in record time. Thankfully I had arrived quite late so I’d had a bit of catching up to do anyway.

As the night carried on there was an in-depth discussion on The 51st State, why Robert Carlyle and Samuel L Jackson should get together for another film, competing with each other for the filthiest rendition of The Aristocrats joke, before gradually moving on to me being on the phone to someone while attacking a Tennants box with a kitchen knife to make myself a cardboard helmet. I again learned that while there are people whom I love, would do anything for, and trust them with my life, my dog, and my money, I wouldn’t let them near my phone in a million years. Largely because while my back’s turned a load of flirty texts that soon turn into a tale of me wanking onto a bath mat get sent to the girl who I’ve yet to stop properly seeing. And who then texted me in the early hours of the morning that she likes me and wants to get to know me better, and did I want to go round to her house tonight. Damn my lovable bum.

As the few people who were there drifted off I found myself in a ramble with the night’s host where we pretty much solved all the world’s problems, figured out a way to make people love each other, and basically bring heaven to Earth. Sadly though the finer details have been obliterated by the cheap wine I was on by that point, and not long after I was halfway home in a taxi, trying to focus on something in the distance to stop the world smudging as it flew by. When I finally got home I found that while someone had left a key outside for me to let myself in, they’d also forgotten to take the key out of the other side of the door. Being the conscientious drunk that I am, I didn’t shout to get someone to wake up, nor did I hammer on the door until they heard it. Funnily enough if I were sober I’d have no problem doing either of those things. Instead I had a pish in the back garden, then convinced myself I’d die of dehydration if I didn’t get something to drink straight away. Cue me going on another early morning stagger to the supermarket to buy orange juice and crisps. Getting home again I still couldn’t wake anyone up by throwing stones at the window, so I went into the laundry and passed out on the old rickety chair in there, with one of the dog’s dirty bed blankets wrapped around me for warmth. I woke up again a few hours later after feeling a distinctly damp feeling around my crotch. I thought, in order, that I was bleeding, sweating, or for the first time I’d got in a bad enough condition that I’d pissed myself. Thankfully I’d forgotten to screw the lid of the bottle of juice on properly and it’d leaked in my hoodie pocket.

Third volley lucky I managed to get one of my brothers to come down and open the door, meaning I could proceed to my scratcher at long last. After lying comatose for eleven hours I awoke to piece things together, starting with why I had “Team Meatloaf” written on my forearm, how I managed to get my jeans off without taking off my boots, and most peculiarly of all: how the fuck did I manage to open the right little door on my advent calendar before I went to sleep? Some things are better just left unknown I guess.