Oh

I have completely forgotten what day my birthday is.

I think it might be some sort of stroke.

Why we should bomb the shit out of Syria

In the spirit of good old British Nationalism and the forthcoming air strikes on Syria, I have decided to compile a jolly list to show my unwavering support for the cause and for our great prime minister, David Cameron.

1. Everyone who will die will be a terrorist.
2. It won't be murder because they will be martyrs.  And everyone loves a martyr.
3. Anyone who doesn't want to bomb Syria is a terrorist sympathiser.
4. It will also mop up the dregs of the refugee crisis as there will be no more refugees to flee the country.
5. David Cameron clearly has the best interests of the common man at heart.
6. Afterwards, Isis will be too scared to do a terrorist attack in England.
7. Since allied air strikes started, nobody wants to join Isis.  Claims that recruits have doubled since then are clearly lies manufactured by notorious rebel leader, 'Red Jez the Corbinator.'
8. We did really well in the last wars, like Iraq and Afghanistan.

I think this should clean up any residual arguments, and put the mind of the nation at ease.

We are doing the right thing.

Man of the people.

The munch, the murderer, and the Marquis (de Sade) - Alcohol Awareness Week, Day VI

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

The hangover

Well I woke up after last night's five gins feeling like absolute fucking poo.  I haven't felt so atrocious since Halloween, and that was as horrific as the holiday suggests.  The alarm came blaring on at 6am and the first thing I felt was a headache the size of a steak lying flat across my brain.  The second thing was Regret.  The whole room span.

I'm not entirely sure how I made it to work alive, but I did and then forced down half a cup of coffee that did not sit at all well on my sensitive innards.  It almost escaped back out of my mouth during the lesson, but I managed to retain it and then reconsume it, all the while keeping an impressively expressionless face.  By some stroke of incredible luck, that was the only lesson today as for one reason or another the rest didn't require my frankly unnecessary presence.  So I gleefully, albeit slowly and quite hunched, returned to the train station, where I came across the most unfortunate sight.

I think it was chicken.  It could've been that some poor soul had been recently disemboweled, but I think it was chicken.  It was lying on the grass in a pink heap, glistening and raw, flies buzzing about it and an especially swift slug already slithering into the mix.  Thin white strings hung over a few of the chunks, and it was without a doubt one of the most rancid things I have ever had the misfortune to lay my eyes on.

In my weakened state I was unable to cope with it, and I gagged three times in quick succession.  Nothing, blessedly, came up, but my stomach was in a sorry state and I forced my gaze away, fixing it on a gentleman walking ahead of me lest it be dragged back to the chunks.  For a few seconds I was successful.  But then suddenly, the image came hurtling back into my mind in high-resolution, pink and wet and devastating and I was unable to contain myself.  I gagged and I could already sense I was doomed this time.  It was on its way.  I gagged again, and the man ahead turned just in time to catch the main event.  With a terrible retching sound, I vomited into my hand and it began seeping through the gaps between my fingers and dripping onto the floor.  I was so mortified that I couldn't stop walking.  He did, and stared at me with a look torn between concern and disgust, but I just carried on, and walked straight past him at speed with a handful of sick as though I was merely taking it home as a souvenir.

I put it on the floor as I rounded a corner and wiped my hand on the wall, which I know is unpleasant but it was either that or my trousers.  I was eager to return home and collapse onto the floor, but then fate conspired against me once again.  Due to some inconsiderate shit wandering across the tracks, I was forced off the train at Wokingham and left stranded.  To make matters worse, a man was then arrested and a woman hit by a lorry, so the police closed the roads and I couldn't find a bus and I didn't even have any fucking change for the bus and it was just the Worst Thing in the World, or at least a close second to that woman under the lorry.  When I did finally return home after the most inordinately expensive bus journey I have ever been on, I was soaked through with rain and sweat and was beginning to become aware of the faintest hint of sick upon my person.

Then I retrieved a bottle of wine and secreted it in a gap between my bookshelf and my bed.  Bearing in mind I am on my own, this seems a disturbing action to take.  I seem to have attempted to hide it from myself.  No doubt in shame.

And of course the skin cancer has also chosen this day to be particularly malicious.  I'm getting the occasional stabbing pain and the nerves there don't seem to be working so well.  I doubt I have more than a week to live.

It looked a bit like this but far less appetising and with more white strings.  And on the floor outside.

Don't let me avoid the doctor

I don't know what the fuck I did to myself over the weekend but I can hardly fucking walk now.  I got out of bed this morning and my calves are just crippled, like the muscles have entirely seized up and think it appropriate to have me totter about like a scarecrow.  It almost had me toppling to my doom down another set of stairs today, but thank Heavens my fall was cushioned by a gigantic man who called me 'an Absolute Fucking Peanut' before kindly dragging me back to my feet.

In other news, I had a whiskey and dry ginger this afternoon and summoned up the courage to call the doctor and book an appointment.  And it isn't for any type of cancer or imminent stroke this time - it's actually to talk about the whole anxiety and depression thing, and about where to go from here.  We were meant to do it a little while ago but somehow I kept finding reasons to avoid it...

But I am going to go this time.  I have inscribed it upon my calendar and therefore I must go because the calendar is law.  Also I've written it in an uncommonly thick black pen that reminds me of a board marker but has a nib so gargantuanly huge it has left absolutely no space for me to write anything else in there.  So I can't change plans now, because it won't go on the calendar and I'll forget.

Don't let me make up a reason not to go.

I was searching for a picture of a giant pen, but this came up so I kept it.