After a nights drinking in the Northern Quarter tanking vodka shots and water I was feeling very ill in the morning. The world was dead to me.
My room was a mess which was making me feel more ill. I could see my deodorant can near my computer but I knew this morning would take more than a quick spray to rectify. I am no tramp.
I decided a bit of guitar hero would sort me out. It involves playing a fake guitar plugged into my playstation and trying to hit the right notes. I was not on best form. It made my head ill.
I knew that if I wanted to stop my drunken brain spinning I'd have to brave the outside world, the jeers, the catcalls, the names. I put on some clothes but still smelt of terrible.
I was hoping to free my mind of alcohol, but this poster brought it all back. 2-4-1 Stella is like saying, if you give me £20 I will ensure you will have to waste half your day recovering tomorrow. I do fancy the cartoon woman though so ill probably go in case I see her.
I felt a little better so thought I would get the bus home, having walked my injured head for about 4 miles. You could say these crossroads are a metaphor for my life, but they are not. They just tell me where to get on the bus.
This is my bus. The 11. It goes all the way to Stockport, but I only need Timperley. Ian Brown from the Stone Roses used to get on the 11. He doesn't anymore.
I had 15 minutes to wait and needed a drink, hangover is caused by dehydration and Calypso cups are specially designed to stop dehydration. This is another example of great British advertising.
The shop was closed. I'm not sure how a police quiz will help Joey Barton sort his anger problems out. His favourite song is message in a bottle, even though Sting was rarely violent.
My head started spinning with vodka again and i had to stare at the floor to stop me from getting dizzy. It wasn't pretty.
Ooo here is the bus. The driver decided to have a cigarette before he drove it back towards Stockport, making me wait longer.
I got his reg plate though, the dirty schemer.
Still no sign of the driver putting his cig down. This is the calibre of person who boards the 11.
Finally the driver decided he wanted to do his job for a bit so I got my shrapnel out, at £1.40 its cheap at twice the price, maybe if it was twice the price then I wouldnt have to sit next to Wythenshawes answer to Leonardo Di Caprio and Kate Winslet above.
I needed to look down to anchor my twirling brain again, but the floor was so messy it made me even more sick. I'm not sure how or why, but Id put money on that bag being involved in some drug escapade.
I decided to look out of the window, maybe outside would be more pretty.
Thats it. Time to get off the bus. Bye Bye.
I set off for the 5 minute walk home, recovering a little again, but wary of a relapse. I put my headphones in and listened to the theme tune from Pokemon to calm me. Once again i blacked myself out in case the East realise my spying credentials and torture me. I have a low pain threshold and will squeal in seconds.
Almost home, I walk past the green cable box where i used to drink as a 13 year old whippersnapper. Now i drink in pubs and clubs, I have moved up in the world since those heady days.
I couldn't help but think that its gone full circle, walking past the place of my first binge. The squalor mixed with what seemed like glamour of having our own Carling 4 pack.I felt a tinge of nostalgia, then I went back to bed.
My room was a mess which was making me feel more ill. I could see my deodorant can near my computer but I knew this morning would take more than a quick spray to rectify. I am no tramp.
I decided a bit of guitar hero would sort me out. It involves playing a fake guitar plugged into my playstation and trying to hit the right notes. I was not on best form. It made my head ill.
I knew that if I wanted to stop my drunken brain spinning I'd have to brave the outside world, the jeers, the catcalls, the names. I put on some clothes but still smelt of terrible.
I was hoping to free my mind of alcohol, but this poster brought it all back. 2-4-1 Stella is like saying, if you give me £20 I will ensure you will have to waste half your day recovering tomorrow. I do fancy the cartoon woman though so ill probably go in case I see her.
I felt a little better so thought I would get the bus home, having walked my injured head for about 4 miles. You could say these crossroads are a metaphor for my life, but they are not. They just tell me where to get on the bus.
This is my bus. The 11. It goes all the way to Stockport, but I only need Timperley. Ian Brown from the Stone Roses used to get on the 11. He doesn't anymore.
I had 15 minutes to wait and needed a drink, hangover is caused by dehydration and Calypso cups are specially designed to stop dehydration. This is another example of great British advertising.
The shop was closed. I'm not sure how a police quiz will help Joey Barton sort his anger problems out. His favourite song is message in a bottle, even though Sting was rarely violent.
My head started spinning with vodka again and i had to stare at the floor to stop me from getting dizzy. It wasn't pretty.
Ooo here is the bus. The driver decided to have a cigarette before he drove it back towards Stockport, making me wait longer.
I got his reg plate though, the dirty schemer.
Still no sign of the driver putting his cig down. This is the calibre of person who boards the 11.
Finally the driver decided he wanted to do his job for a bit so I got my shrapnel out, at £1.40 its cheap at twice the price, maybe if it was twice the price then I wouldnt have to sit next to Wythenshawes answer to Leonardo Di Caprio and Kate Winslet above.
I needed to look down to anchor my twirling brain again, but the floor was so messy it made me even more sick. I'm not sure how or why, but Id put money on that bag being involved in some drug escapade.
I decided to look out of the window, maybe outside would be more pretty.
Thats it. Time to get off the bus. Bye Bye.
I set off for the 5 minute walk home, recovering a little again, but wary of a relapse. I put my headphones in and listened to the theme tune from Pokemon to calm me. Once again i blacked myself out in case the East realise my spying credentials and torture me. I have a low pain threshold and will squeal in seconds.
Almost home, I walk past the green cable box where i used to drink as a 13 year old whippersnapper. Now i drink in pubs and clubs, I have moved up in the world since those heady days.
I couldn't help but think that its gone full circle, walking past the place of my first binge. The squalor mixed with what seemed like glamour of having our own Carling 4 pack.I felt a tinge of nostalgia, then I went back to bed.
1 comment:
'I hope the cartoon woman is there' classic
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