100th post: Police stops, half cut clubbing, and looking like a bouncer.

Another gap in posts, tried to sit down and write about a half dozen times but never got the peace to do so. But today is my day off and everyone is either out or in bed after a night shift so I figured I’d grab what little chance I have for some proper quiet to get all this typed up.

Had one of my rare nights out to a club the weekend before last, as is normal my memories are rather hazy, what I do remember after the bottle of Jack Daniels before we all left to go out was the police stopping us on the way to the train station, asking me what it was I had in my still mostly full plastic pint glass, to which I replied: “Whiskey, sambuca, tequila, vodka, some poofy fruit juice and a wee bit of cola on top to darken it.” Either they didn’t believe me or I had the good fortune to bump into the soundest polis in Scotland because I walked away with it still in hand.

The club itself was the usual medley of rock tunes that I’d either never heard of before or was too drunk to recognise, a man emploring me to “just kiss his fuckin’ burd man” and minor flashbacks of a ginger chick with big tits and a chest piece.

Through beer-goggles she might just have looked like this. But probably not, let’s face it.

Next thing I remember is standing outside, lost from everyone I went with who all appeared to have had a rammy with the bouncers and got chucked out, missing my last bus and weighing up the pros and cons of getting either a taxi or walking home 30-odd miles like you only can while completely smashed. Eventually a little kernel of common sense made itself known and I opted for a taxi instead. Walking to the rank I heard some skinny dude who looked like he would’ve lived in a Berghaus jackets were this 2007 asking if one of the drivers would take them to the town right next to mine. Operating on “close enough” logic I told the guy I was going to share the taxi with him. Yes, told. Woops.

He shouted on his two mates who were busy trying to proposition another driver and we all piled into the back of a Hackney cab and were merrily on our way. The taxi dropped me off first, and the three guys decided they’d pay my fair as they thought I was a bouncer! For £50 in my pocket I wasn’t going to correct them.

And… that’s about it. Other than that I’ve been working away and reading The Walking Dead comics. Three cheers are in order however as this is offically the 100th post I’ve made on this little blog. Not too bad I’d say!

Read Full Post »

Delhi dumping, nostril digging, and suiting up.

Found myself on a bit of a downer over the past week or so, usual angsty bollocks that I try to fend off as best I can but still gets through and shows itself mostly as boredom and an inability to make my mind up about what I want to do from one minute to the next. Suppose it could be down to me coming from a week of late shifts straight onto a week of the early shifts, maybe my body clock hasn’t had time to adjust or some shit like that.  I think I’m just a bit more sensitive to people who call up their ISP at 8am to complain about something, and by sensitive I mean immediately angry at. For the past week or so the company website has been playing funny buggers, and a fair few people haven’t been able to get into their email, but there’s a neat little way to get into them by manually typing in the URL for the web mail and logging in that way, sorted. But that’s not good enough for some people, they want “compensation.” Not even for not being able to access it, but because they’ll have to go in a different route that seemingly throws them three miles out of their comfort zone, and all that really changed was four letters at the beginning of a URL and not having to look at adverts. I’d have more respect for them if they were just honest greedy bastards, but some of them seem to think they’re so fucking fragile the slightest inconvenience needs a monetary reward as a sorry for something they’re provided for fucking free.

Aside from that, the phone routing system was fucked as well, so the little experiment in only dealing with customers in the first few months of a contract has come to an abrupt halt for the time being and I was chucked back into “Gen Pop” to deal with regular calls. Intelligence levels of every caller plummeted, the sense of entitlement skyrocketed, and I’ve had to spend half my time telling people that no, I don’t give a pair of spunk-slicked hoor’s knickers if the man from India gave you a tenner credit to get you off the phone, you’ll be getting fuck all from me. To the man with “Wank” in his name: you are by name as you are by nature, ya cunt. And finally to the councillor from Wigan: only I’m allowed to slag the Indians, because they’re my brothers from other mothers in regards to this job, so I took offense at your request to be transferred to a British person, and made sure that you were deep into Delhi before I transferred you over.

Friday saw me in the pub that is quickly becoming the work regular. Along with one of the higher-ups (my open loathing of the public seemingly no barrier to networking) I found myself getting a headstart on the drinking, deciding to continue with my philosophy of a slow, steady descent in drunkenness then fucking off home when I had just enough money to pay for a taxi and wasn’t in any immediate danger of sobering up before I passed out in bed. I learned a few things that night, like I’m perfectly willing to steal the decorative hardback books in a pub just in the off-chance that the world’s greatest story is somehow hidden inside. I also learned that my attention span is not good enough to follow through with this idea after I’ve necked a day’s wage in cider. Also that for all the slut I am, it doesn’t matter how big a girl’s tits are when she picks her nose with her thumb in public.

The weekend proper seen me trying to find time to fill given that I couldn’t muster the motivation to go to the gym, or get myself in the right flavour of bad mood that makes me think “What’s the point in not going?” So I’ve found myself with a dozen books ordered from Amazon with a half-dozen more still en route, and a couple of Judge Dredd comics, one medium I’ve never taken an interest in. Tying that all up were episodes of Doctor Who that I’d never seen since they’d been aired seven years ago, both moderately enjoyable and triggering me to think what I was doing back then. I also bought a suit for my cousin’s wedding, my first proper suit, which will hopefully never be worn outside of weddings, funerals, and job interviews. Curious how closely related they are.

Today I’ve just worked, tomorrow I shall work some more, and I might just come on here and moan about the people I talk to. Who knows, play your cards right and it might just be you one day!

Read Full Post »

Sore backs, surprise porn, and how you all get here now.

Back to posting in the middle of the night for a few days at least. I’m backshift at work so I clock off when others are thinking about heading to bed. Truth be told I’m just trying to kill time for a while and see about staying awake. I’m feeling a bit fucking rough today. Was over at that girls house, the one I had The Talk with more than a month or so ago yet we still keep bumping into each other naked. Rolled a couple of joints, sat and watched a Thai film with awful dubbing, shagged a half-dozen times then passed out in the wee hours of the morning. I spent the night there for once as I was too tired to move and thought that buggering off again would’ve been me acting thoroughly shittily. So I slept in a room that was too hot, on a bed that was too soft, next to a girl who monopolised all the fucking real estate and left me half dangling off of the bed. Not the best sleep I’ve ever had.

My day kicked off with workmen in the flat below hammering away, and my otherwise good mood going awry when I made a throw-away joke about her delivering me a pick-me-up at home, to which she replied that she didn’t actually know where I lived. Damn, I felt a little pang of guilt at that. I’d been up this lassie’s rear and she didn’t even know where it was I rested my head when it wasn’t between her legs? It seemed a bit cold, even for me. Was I that kind of guy? I decided no, because if I had my own place I wouldn’t be going out of my way to hide my address from the majority of women.

I stumbled back into my car with a sleep deprived hashover and found myself at home. The worlds most refreshing shower later and I was ready for work. Because I was starting in the afternoon, all of the decent headsets had been taken, as well as the chairs, so I was left with a rickety piece of shite where the back of it didn’t stay in the one place. This job is causing me more discomfort than working in the kennels or marching around as a landscaper ever did. My back is actually painful. I have a sore back, that’s old man stuff! Sitting on my arse all day doing nothing has given me a worse injury than dogs or heavy machinery ever did, and I’ve only been there a couple of months.

Things didn’t get much better from there, with cunt after complete cunt phoning up. I’m convinced that certain phones attract certain customers. There’s a least two I avoid because it’s nothing but people who don’t have a basic grasp of English, many of them without the excuse that it’s not their native tongue. Another channels pensioners and Apple customers, the latter I can detect from their tone of voice alone. I had the joy of spending half an hour remotely logged into a guy’s computer trying to figure out why his connection was going so slow when a little message that popped up in the bottom right of his screen proudly informed me that “Teen Jayne takes two big black dicks.avi” had just finished downloading. I gave him a stern talking to about the mechanics of porn torrents and sent him on his way.

My previous post has come up as being written over a month ago, it was actually only a few days, fuck knows how I managed to mangle the dates. And a big thank you to all the “zoophiles” out there, since mentioning the words “animal erotica” in the title of a post it’s now become the second most common way people find this blog on Google.

Thanks a bunch, you sick motherfuckers.

Read Full Post »

Pregnancies and trips.

Things have happened! I might as well start with the biggest and most recent: Marsha is pregnant. I’d been having a smoke yesterday with Hans, and had returned home to enjoy lying on my bed half stoned and listen to music for the rest of the night when I got a short and to the point text from her telling me she had a bun in the oven. To be honest I thought it was a joke at first, but no, it was official. A few minutes later it was Facebook official, so I knew for sure that some fornication had indeed occurred. Given that I had no idea what to do in that situation and my mind was still rather frazzled, I decided that meeting up to give her a “muthafuckin’ hug” sounded just about appropriate. So I zoomed down the road, stopping briefly to pick up some non-alcoholic wine and water to cure me of my severe cottonmouth, then went to her flat. I gave her a hug, happy that she was happy, shook her boyfriend’s hand (who is now working in the same place as me, only in customer service rather than tech) and tried to gauge the likelihood of him running a mile.

We went a drive and everything was nice, I was on a level where I could enjoy everyone being happy and kept my mouth shut about any other shit, namely the practicalities of the whole thing, but I knew she’d think of all that herself. Besides, what kind of dick would I be if I said that on the day she told everyone? Not my job to be the party pooper. Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy for her and I’m sure she’d make a great mum, and her boyfriend is one of the soundest guys I know, but fuck me it could’ve probably happened at a better time. They’ve been going out less than a year, not living together, she’s working every hour possible just to afford the flat she’s in just now, and he makes less than me, and I make fuck all. Mostly though I’m worried about two things: that he may decide Marsha isn’t the girl he wants to spend the rest of his days with, leaving her to bring up a kid as a single mum, or that things don’t even get far enough for that. Last year she miscarried, and was months along before it happened and before she told anyone. Now she’s only a month into the whole thing, and she’s announcing it to everyone. If it happens again it’ll break her heart. This seems to be “the” baby rather than “a” baby. I hate being such a fucking pessimist, but I won’t be able to breathe a sigh of relief until the kid’s twelve and I can be sure everything went alright.

Also last night I heard that another girl from college was pregnant as well, this one is being kept on the down low though. I’m paranoid because these sorts of things come in threes. I’m now trying to figure out how fate is categorising who to pick. Is it girls I know? Only girls I went to college with? Girls with names within a certain range in the alphabet? Girls I’ve had sex dreams about in that semi-conscious way before I wake up properly in the morning then felt a wee bit guilty about? I’m mainly thinking this because I haven’t been a very safety conscious dude in the past few weeks, and I’m nowhere near as keen on a wee bairn as others are.

In other lady-related news, 28F made a brief return to things, adding me on Facebook and inviting me to her 21st party. Decided to decline both, the clouds parting before me, filling me with the revelation that birthday parties were suddenly, and without doubt, infantile gobshite I’d do well to avoid. Left it as a “maybe”, knowing I couldn’t give a valid excuse as to why I wouldn’t be available on a specific weekend months in advance. The real reason is that we had absolutely nothing in common beyond being in the same room together for a few hours each week, that she pissed me off more as time went on, then topped the whole thing off with a flurry of cuntishness towards the end that made even little old me want to have nothing to do with her. And that’s about that.

Work is going well, I’m near the top of the class with little effort and a far more laid back attitude than the other members of the dream team. Our manager is a nice woman. 30, two (or three?) kids, really fat and with the kind of biting humour your only get in mothers of boys and women who didn’t get the hotties in school. Easiest calls are the angry ones, I love people getting indignant and wanting free shit, knowing there isn’t an actual problem I need to think about solving and I just need to let them moan for a little bit before transferring them to the department who can actually help them. Normally cancellations. Now here’s the bit I need to tip-toe around, in the off-chance there’s a guilty white person reading that’ll do their damnedest to track me down and put an end to my horrid right-wing ways: the worst calls are from Asians. But Asia is a massive place, so we’ll narrow it down to Middle-Easterners. Now, it’s not the people themselves, or their accents, but their fucking phones. When I see that the call is coming from Birmingham or Bradford I cry a little. I can’t decide if they’re all a bit insular down there and the same shitty handsets sell like hotcakes to anyone who has someone called Mohammed in their family tree, or if it’s the actual infrastructure in the cities themselves. In either case, they sound like they’re phoning from the bottom of the ocean, while their submarine is made from rustley tinfoil. I can’t figure out what the fuck they’re saying. The thing is though, if the call is from a Dr Farouk who probably lives in a nice little suburb, the line is fine, it could be as if he’s standing right next to me. Jamal though? He’s fucked. He’s not getting his internet on that day, but after twenty minutes on the phone I’ll be booking a technician to go out and see him, because I’m not spending an hour trying to guide him through checking if his browser settings are correct. Or I might just send him replacement equipment for free, cos I’m lovely like that.

I’ll finish on a solemn note. Kids, don’t do drugs. And if you do do drugs, don’t do too much, especially not in the one sitting. I’d bought an eighth a week or so back from a (yet another, as yet unmentioned in this post) girl I went to college with. I had a joint at hers when I went to buy it, and it was strong stuff, much more than I was expecting. Over the next few days I’d sneaked a little puff mixed with tobacco here and there and everything was lovely. But I did a silly thing the night before last. Because I was off today and yesterday, and because I couldn’t drive (some fucker kicked off my wing mirror) I decided that I’d roll a couple joints of this stuff pure. Course, I’d forgotten it burns a lot quicker without tobacco in it, so I had one really really quick. That didn’t do much for me, so I had the other one at the same speed, all to myself, all within the time it’d taken me to walk five minutes home. When I got in the house it started hitting me and I knew I couldn’t hide the fact I was completely baked, so I went into my room, shut the door, checked I had something to drink, and vowed to stay there.

I was in a condition. My vision went to shit, and would only keep up with my heartbeat, so when I turned my head, my sight took a while to catch up. I was coming out in a cold sweat, but my face felt as if it was being burned by my hand when I touched it, and all my stubble felt like needles going into my skin. I couldn’t settle properly, my mind totally unable to concentrate on anything without an almost physical feeling of my mind being dragged away to think about something else, which would normally induce a flash of paranoia. I started to think that the hole at the back of my throat that allowed me to breathe through my nose was opened permanently, making it hard to drink. I worried about lying down, but worried about sitting up. I needed to cool myself down, but it felt as though it was only hot air being blown out of my window with nothing cool being blown in. When I lay on my side and closed my eyes I’d see things that I can’t decide were hallucinations or dreams forcing me to wake up.

But you know what? It was actually quite good, and I woke up the next afternoon feeling refreshed and ready to face the day…

Read Full Post »

You’re my daddy, now hear me snore.

Right this very moment, thanks to my new wonderful phone, I’m reporting live from beside a girl who snores worse than my fucking dog does, and who I have had to shake awake on more than one occasion when the snoring ominously stopped and I became paranoid that she may have stopped breathing as well. Her cat meanwhile, no doubt feeling rejected because I wouldn’t let it sit on my head, is now lying on top of my Jeans giving it’s pussy a thorough licking. I’m seriously pondering whether I’m a big enough bastard to simply sneak out and never return. Help!

Eight times I’ve had to fuck this girl tonight, putting up with her clumsy drunken fumbling and razor sharp fucking nails. Not to mention that she’s flipped from screaming daddy as we fucked to asking me if I hated her afterwards. That’s on top of the hair pulling, face slapping, hard spanking and going dry where you shouldn’t. Normally not the sort of thing I’d bring up but as I was asked to I obliged. Then came the “make me feel like I don’t want it” and I got seriously turned off. I’ll do pretty much anything, but if that’s the kind of fantasy behind it you can get yourself to fuck my dear.

Also I’d like to take a moment and mention a little bit of shagging etiquette for those not savvy in these matters: after every even numbered shag, take a fucking break to let the guy recuperate. And don’t go telling him to come then moan when he does, especially on the sixth time in little over an hour and a fucking half. I swear to fuck I was shooting out dust by the last time.  And for the love of God, don’t try to finger him as a surprise!

I’m tired, I’m cranky, I can’t sleep because she sounds like a horse drowning in syrup, I want to go home, I want a shower, I want my own bed and I really really need to fart. I’m giving it another half hour then I’m going to escape, my excuse being I had to get up early to help my uncle with a car boot sale. Failing that I’m just going to swing her cat about by the tail until she politely asks that I leave.

Read Full Post »

Seediness, Santa, and bidding farewell to 2011.

Christmas has come and gone, and it wasn’t half bad I must admit. I spent the latter hours of Christmas Eve going into the early hours of Christmas morning in a jovial mood in the back seat of my car. Which sounds far seedier than it actually was. The good thing about where I live being that you’re never too far a drive away from a nice quiet spot, with good views and a relaxing atmosphere. I’ll start feeling dirty if I find myself pumping down back alleys underneath an orange street light. Think less sleazy, more erotic. Yeah, that’s what I’m aiming for. In any case, the day started off quite well, and I toddled off home to pass out for a few hours. When I was younger I could never bring myself to sleep, didn’t matter if I’d stayed awake the entire night before, or been dosed by my mum on the extra drowsy kids medicine, I’d still be wanting to catch the moment that big fat red bastard shot down the chimney. This year however I actually had to be woken up by my brothers. I’m getting old yo.

I’ll get right onto listing the booty: Tickets for Derren Brown, some DVDs, money, usual smelly shit, couple of books, a few giftcards, and a load of useless little stocking fillers that are nonetheless an integral part of the day. There was a ton of chocolate as well, which was munched at a steady rate throughout the day, only stopping long enough to go and get the curry for dinner. It sound weird to have that rather than the normal turkey with all the trimmings, but it works out better overall. Who really wants to stand and cook on Christmas day? So one of us goes out to the best Indian in town, gets all our favourite food, and we have an excellent meal where everyone’s relaxed. And Doctor Who was on in the background as well. Perfect.

Boxing day was a fairly busy one, we all piled in the car and drove over to see my cousin who was back for a week or so from working in LA. He brought his girlfriend with him, was the first time I’d met her, and she was really nice. Lucky fucker has done well for himself. I’m wondering if being Scottish is something you can trade on abroad…. Dinner consisted of lasagne and chilli, with various breads and whatnot. There’s a time for fancy food, and there’s a time for good fucking scran that you don’t need to figure out how to eat. As the day wore on the drinks were steadily consumed, and nobody seemed to realise that my dad had went through to perform a little spot of acupuncture on my uncle’s foot while a few times over the limit until he’d been gone for half an hour. Someone for some reason decided that charades would be a good idea, and for my first ever go it wasn’t that bad at all. Says a lot about my side of the family that they got poo+knees to mean The Goonies, and from fart derived that I was talking about Sparticus.

Sadly I’ve been working since yesterday, and it’s made me appreciate those fortnight long holidays I used to have all the more. Without a doubt the first holiday days I’ll be booking will be a couple on either side of Christmas and New Year. Things at the call centre have been looking up, spent a bit more time listening in today, got to the point where if I was asked I’d be fairly comfortable taking a call myself, which I’ll be doing next week at some point whether I want to or not. As for plans for Hogmanay, I’ve not really got any. Been invited along to a house party, but I don’t know if that’s still happening, and there’s always just staying in… But I’ve done that every year, I’m in the mood to be out in the biggest crowd I can find.

Been a not half bad year looking back on it, had some awesome times, got decent grades at college, an alright job, my car is alive, and I’m not going through new year in a dry patch. Shit could definitely be worse. Next year may be even better, who knows, but that’s what I’m aiming for. This will probably be my last entry of 2011, hope it’s been a good one for all of you, and that next year is even better. Have fun!

Read Full Post »

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.

Read Full Post »

Sambuca, heels, and the boner-filled nappy.

Sweet titty fucking Christ I feel rough. Had a change of plan regarding the costume. I couldn’t find a shirt that would suit a dog collar and I figured being a priest wasn’t really the best thing to dress up as in a building with a few hundred girls using the night as an excuse to dress a bit more freely than usual. I didn’t want them to think I was the famous author of A Reminder Of Morality after all. So I went out and got myself a cheap long-sleeved black shirt with matching trousers and wore my “employ me” shoes with it, making a rather dapper ensemble even if I do say so myself. As the people I was going with had never seen me in anything other jeans or various states of undress, I was suited up like I never am outside of funerals. The face ended up being all white along with the hair and beard and black around the eyes. There wasn’t really a name for it but someone mentioned the words “suave Beetlejuice” so that’s what the whole look became.

The night started in Marsha’s pre-drinking with her, her boyfriend (zombie prom dates) and Marsha’s friend who was dressed as a gorgeous mime. Unfortunately her heels were on the wrong side of the infallible mathematical formula which dictates that the higher the heels a girl wears corresponds with a vastly increased probability of her becoming miserable with discomfort before very long. So despite her looking completely stunning in what were bordering on miniature stilts I knew way deep down in my heart that her face would be tripping her by the time we even got to where we were going. After getting suitably inebriated we headed off to the train station for the ride in, ending up in a queue so long to get in I’d practically sobered up. The bouncers had all dressed up as neds: old school Kappa tracksuits, Berghaus jackets, and old slasher caps to top it off. They’re an alright bunch in there, given the Cathouse’s clientele has a large number of effeminate posers in skinny jeans they don’t have to worry too much about anything big kicking off.

Inside the place was packed, which a lot of people don’t like but I find a bit of comfort in. They had more staff on so I got served quicker, which has always been my main gripe about clubs. You want to dance or try your luck, not stand around waiting to spend your hard-earned on overpriced drink. Though that wasn’t such an issue last night, where sambuca shots were a pound a time. Looks like water, but you really shouldn’t drink it like such. That’s why I was being responsible and made sure that every time I bought a shot I washed it down with a pint of Bulmers too. Got to be sensible about these kinds of things after all.

I had a thoroughly good time, mainly because I was always doing something and spent more time in the middle of the crowd dancing than I did on the outskirts talking to people like I have done the past couple of times I’ve been in there. Managed to thaw out the ice queen mime a little bit as well. We had all set up shop in the back bar, which has the comfiest seats but the music is inaccessible to anyone who doesn’t already know what it is. She’d been semi-abandoned (not set up as my date or anything so I’d buggered off to get in about it) and was sitting herself when I remembered how the Cathouse can be fucking terrible to a lot of people not used to it. I asked her if she’d been there before, was she into that kind of music, both answered no predictably. We shared the latter part in common, but try being a guy who looks right at home in a rock club telling someone that you don’t know a single track that’s playing and you’d rather be raving than headbanging and it gets you a look of “Aye, right then pal.” Kind soul that I am, I took her to the more mainstream part of the place which had been playing LMFAO not long before but had decided to throw on some metal just in time to make me look a fool. Saved by Marsha appearing in the nick of time I buggered off again to look for the redhead that had taken to rubbing her face on my beard and was carrying around a cauldron of every drink on offer mixed together. My kinda lass.

Not everyone else had as good a night, me being the one without anything on my mind for once. For the rest it was a collection of exes, place being too busy, nearly avoiding being vomited on and the aforementioned Burj Khalifa of high heels that made them call time an hour before closing. Figured that it was better to quit while I was ahead and left as well before the place started to empty. The centre of Glasgow was filled with people either waiting on buses or taxis, but it was fairly good natured, with a minimal chance of random violence that there usually is. We were gifted to the surreal view of a man dressed as a baby (with nothing on the lower half other than an adult nappy) finger banging an air hostess before running to his taxi with his boner bouncing around.

The taxi ride back constituted various discussions on Minecraft, college, horror films, old TV shows and my traditional “Gaunnae fuckin’ watch Breaking Bad ya shower ae fuckin’ cunts!” Dropping a couple of people off on the way before the original four of us ended up back at Marsha’s again. The mime got a lift home from there and I buggered off at the same time after waiting for a taxi that hadn’t shown, deciding to just walk the forty minutes or so home. Was offered the customary Stanley blade (previously used to zombify clothes, now in the off-chance that I wasn’t the most mental thing awake) which I kindly refused and left. As I should have known, five minutes later and I was getting the call back that the taxi had shown up at long last. Now realising that I had nearly an hour of marching before I’d get back to mine, motorised transport sounded bloody brilliant. Almost on cue a taxi was driving towards me (which could’ve been mine anyway, let’s face it) so I did the only thing you can do when it’s five in the morning and you’re dressed like a suave ghoul: I walked out into the middle of the road causing the taxi to stop, noticed there was nobody else in it, walked up to the driver side door, opened it, and asked him if he was free. “Eh, um, sure jump in.” was the reply and a couple of minutes later I was home. He told me I didn’t have to pay as he was going home anyway but being half cut I gave him a fiver. Wasn’t until later on that I realised exactly what I’d done. The guy must’ve thought I was going to steal the car or something. Part of me is slightly offended at that.

I cured my usual munchies with a pizza, some water and a packet of crisps which meant I wouldn’t be going to bed with nothing but fluid in my belly and passed out for twelve hours as content as you can be. Nice to have avoided the downer and the worst of the hangover. Total score was one bottle of whiskey, two pints of Fosters, five or six of Bulmers with matching shots of sambuca and half a cauldron full of whatever the hell it was that it was in it. Best night out I’ve had in a while, but moving onto a different club next time, for the music if nothing else.

Read Full Post »

Crybaby.

Fuck sake, I really am a great big poof at times. I’ll have to avoid being around keyboards with a drink in me from now on. Surprisingly literate though, and I remembered to click the spell check button so that’s a little thing I can take pride in. And not one tear was shed, it was a manly angry drunken rage! Anyway, after struggling to sleep until nearly noon and then spending all of yesterday with a hangover that felt like I was carrying a horse on my back I’m slightly more All Better Now™ .

But yeah, what’s said when drunk is often what’s thought when sober: I’m getting steadily more sick of being single. I’d rather have phrased it in a less melodramatic way than I did, but there it is. I’m not getting all Ally McBeal over it, I’ll come across someone at some point. Seeing the kind of people who are together gives me faith that I’m not in any real danger of ending up a hermit. They can do it, so can I. The whole “timer” thing is something I’ll need to get over though, that’s a bit fucked in the head even for me. Oh christ I’m of them aren’t I? One of those complete cunts with baggage. I want you all to promise me something, if these things develop into “issues” you fucking tell me. Preferably in big block capitals so I can go and string myself up at the nearest sturdy tree.

For all I whinged and moaned when I got in, saturday night was indeed a good one. It was the first time I’d been in this guy’s flat and it was true what they say, you really can tell a lot about a person from their house. From the Union Jack as a centrepiece to two pictures of Big Ben on either side (one with a phone box, the other with a double-decker bus, both artfully black and white) and a London canvas hanging on another wall, you’d have struggled to tell he was a Rangers supporter… It was at this point I was going blabber on about unrequited love tying in with that girl feeling it too and it’s a horrible thing that I once felt long ago etc then I remembered that that’s not what I’m feeling now, bitch! I’ll mark it down and be sure to expand on it the next time I’m half cut though.

And a thank you to whichever kind soul decided to grab a link to here and run with it to that place that shall not be named, it was a welcome wee bump in traffic, which resulted in me only being called a nigger faggot once! They must like me or something.

Read Full Post »

Jack Daniels can never fuck me hard enough.

Right, straight from the off I’ll admit that at this current moment in time I’m half cut and just missed the “up” side of drinking and have slipped into the melancholy, lonely-man-hugging-booze-at-the-bar-in-the-afternoon phase of my drinking. Was at a friend of a friend’s house for a few jars, and there it was all good. It was a good atmosphere, we joked about old shit and the games we used to play, I got talking to a hot girl about her application to work at Rockstar North and everything, it was great. Even the shit that’s on my mind now was funny back then, I laughed it off and felt great and as is the way with these things it wasn’t until I was back in the taxi by myself with a bit of silence so my mind could speak up and torture me that I hit a bit of a fucking downer. The girl that’s been on my “fuck sake why was I such a dopey cunt” list and has been for a while came up into conversation. Big fall outs had happened and the usual shit and it transpired that she was into a taken guy. This pissed me off man, without so much as a bit of flirtation or particularly good looks she was still draped all over him. He’s sound as a fucking dollarpound but fuck me, the shit’s depressing you know? I hate to act like a angsty depressing cunt but when a lassie does fucking laps but never seems to see you it gets laughably bad y’know? Maybe if I was head over heels about her it’d be forgivable but to get worked up over a casual ride is downright shite.

Part of me wishes that I’d bought two bottles of whiskey instead of just the one, then I’d have been too wrecked to contemplate anything other than the vague notion of bed. Another part of me wishes that I’d fucking grow up and just start going out with a girl instead of sticking my dick in everything then bolting not long after. But I know I won’t. From the very first kiss a timer starts counting down to the moment where I convince myself that it’s went on for too long and walk away. I can’t bear the thought of wasting another five years on the one girl only for it all to go to shit and miss out on all the other experiences I could have had. At once I’m both more than willing to give love but not accept it back. I see the clock counting down and see every girls middle name along the likes of “used to” or “could’ve.” And I know that you don’t just wander across “The One” and that you have to work your way through shit relationships and work at the one you’re in at the moment, I can’t bring myself to even start. It’s not fear of abandonment or never getting anyone in the first place, in many ways it’s worse: That uncontrollable outside influences impact on something that’s fantastic and there ends up being an unstoppable decline.

There’s no-one I can really talk to about this sort of shit. Normally it’d be Marsha but in this situation we’re too similar to each other that I’d risk saying it. Not wanting to commit to someone after your last relationship lasted five years because you think the next one will inevitably go to shit too? I’m paranoid that it’d be the one tiny little seed of doubt that starts to grow in her mind and I’d feel in some way responsible for any trouble that’d happen between her and her new boyfriend, who’s really cool.

That’s me done. I’m going to go sober up, play Batman and wait until I can see all the shit that gets me down in a nice ordered clarity in my mind’s eye rather than the blurry smudge it is at the moment. Rant over.

Read Full Post »