What’s my age again? - Liam R
It’s amazing how an absolute hatred of my birthday can lead to decisions that many normal people wouldn’t even contemplate. But hate my birthday I do and despite some people’s best efforts I can’t say I even noticed it. Hell, I hung up on my mum after thirty seconds with the response “it’s just a day” and if that doesn’t tell you how I feel about it nothing will. And don’t even get me fucking started on Christmas, oh lord how many rows did I get into with my ex when I told her that I DIDN’T WANT A FUCKING CHRISTMAS PRESENT for the hundredth time. No wonder I am so pathetically alone. So this birthday, I decided to head East to deepest darkest Kent to look after a friend’s pet rabbits and cats. And here’s what happened in vague chronological order.
Sunrise Adams. Part Irish. I would hit it until my cock fell off. And still hit it.
Thursday 22 nd June: I Have Five Minutes To Save The Universe, I Don’t Need This Shit – And the comedy doth ensue from the first second. Switch oven on. Hunt high and low for cat dishes. Don’t find them. Put dinner in oven. Find cat dishes. Can’t find rabbit food. Burn dinner. Have shower. Shower floods. Bollocks.
Friday 23 rd June: To Hell Or Waterloo? One of the more interesting parts of my world for the ten days is my commute. Normally it takes one hour fifty minutes door-to-door to cover the massive eight miles from my house to Staines , but this week it will take two hours ten minutes to go four times the distance. But what’s more important is that I have to go through Waterloo station every day, and this is the horrible part. Waterloo is inhabited by the biggest collection of inbreds and retards outside of Bracknell. I mean how fucking hard is it to walk at something quicker than ‘stoned sloth’? How hard is it to stand by the departure board rather than squint at them from fifty feet away? How fucking hard is it to walk in single fucking file rather than four or five across while still walking slowly? Why do you people fucking wait until fucking rush hour to buy a fucking ticket? I swear if Al Qaeda call a terrorist attack on that hellhole I will be out in the streets celebrating and burning a Union Jack in sympathy (not that I need much of an excuse to burn it anyway). It doesn’t have the modern sheen of Liverpool Street, nor the historical coolness of Paddington, it’s just a fucking ugly station full of fucking wankers. Hell call in the nukes, I’ll guide them in.
Saturday 24 th June: Night Bus To Cairo via Southwark, Camberwell, Peckham, New Cross, Deptford, Lewisham, Blackheath, Welling and Bexley – Found a few nice pubs in and around Covent Garden where I got much love for my ‘Jack Bauer Wouldn’t Stand For This Shit’ T-shirt, ignored the one pub I ignored on my disastrous date the night before and ended up in a pub whose name escapes me. It was Irish, very steam punk, spread over four floors, served no lager (Liam on Magners, lovely), was the very definition of a sweat box and had cunningly hidden toilets. That the night bus took an hour and half to get home doesn’t really matter, it was fun.
Jack Bauer wouldn't stand for this shit. Neither should you.
Sunday 25 th June: Mini Movie Review Time – So bored before the England vs. Ecuador match and Canadian Grand Prix, I thought I’d check out ‘From Hell’ starring Johnny Depp and Heather Graham. Basically a retelling of the Jack The Ripper legend it brings a slight satanic influence to the most commonly accepted version of events, that being that The Queen’s personal physician was doing it because he was a bit bonkers. Graham’s cockney accent isn’t awful, Depp plays a slightly more sober version of his character in ‘Pirates Of The Caribbean’ and it’s fairly well acted. It isn’t nearly gory enough and the whole thing was done much better with Michael Caine chewing the scenery.
Monday 26 th June – Thursday 29 th June: The pain – Well not a lot of fun stuff happened during the last few days. My decision to forget a coat backfired on Monday as the heavens opened, but more importantly my nights and days became racked with toothache. And when I say nights, I mean 3am “Good God my fucking teeth are killing me pain” which were lovely to say the least. On one hand, I finished my course of drugs for my costochondritis so the last remnants of that night are finally expunged from my system. On the other hand, one of my teeth has rotted away so badly the nerves in it are dying hence the pain, and also hence the reason why next Monday I am preparing to have a dentist tear my tooth open, suck out the decayed crap and fill it with Polyfilla. I guess I'd also best say a bit about Most Haunted, which provided it's (God knows how many they've done) live show. Well the show is already up to it's neck in shit after the last stunt it pulled, with the National Trust and English Heritage wanting to know why the dug a big fucking hole at Portsmouth Castle without permission. Anyway, the show was as boring as shit save for Yvette Fielding dry heaving on one of the nights, plus some odd cold blasts which looked really, really shit. I miss Derek Acorah!
So what did I learn during this time alone? For starters, I need my pornography like a newborn baby needs its mother’s bosom. Secondly, even when I am completely alone I can’t think of anything original. Thirdly, I am so not ready for living life on my own again. Fourthly, I need a woman and quckly.