I have been working on my Michael Douglas sex addict hair. Bought myself a special volumising shampoo and some pomade. Spellcheck is telling me volumising isn’t a word, but I’ve seen it on an advert, so it must be okay.
Everybody loves rugby, it appears. The World Cup is upon us. This shit never ends. Sport. Fucking sport. I just don’t understand it. I’ve been to football matches. I once saw Manchester United play against Southampton. 1991. Boring as hell. One goal in the entire game. The fact that a person can be idolised (and rich to the point of vulgarity) for kicking a ball quite well is something I can’t get my head around. Large stadiums of assholes, chanting and shouting and jeering. I just spend ninety minutes looking longingly at the nearest exit.
Rugby I find less banal because of its sheer brutality. Blood! Broken limbs! Squeezed testicles! Still, there are other ways I would rather spend an hour and half. Ironing, perhaps.
I am not what you would call a team player, but this is frowned upon in modern society so I try to find little ways of convincing people otherwise. Take last night, for example, work drinks. Good old Jack getting drunk with the subordinates and the bosses of the firm like a proper man.
Trouble is, I get bored. In the £6-a-pint bar, I was having a chat with a pregnant girl and a few other people. Pregs said: “I don’t see the issue with half a glass of wine every now and then.” This sparked a few disapproving looks from her (mostly male) colleagues. I looked around, three pints and two shots down and thought This is getting pretty dull. So I said, po-faced, “I was a crack baby.”
Gasps. Everyone I work with is quite posh (or at least they like to think they are). Once a guy told me he “Doesn’t eat at places like KFC,” the common Bolton twang still lingering slightly in his manicured voice like a pimple he can’t squeeze. But I know that motherfucker has eaten his fair share of bargain buckets. Pretence. It’s all pretence.
So anyway, Crack Baby…
“Yeah,” I carry on, “born addicted to crack. Very sad. I’m off it now, though.”
Nervous laughter. That half glass of wine suddenly doesn’t seem so bad.
Two rounds of tequila shots bought by some bloke I’ve just met who works in a department I’ve never heard of. We’re best friends for twenty minutes. He’s probably very important. People love to bash their credit cards at these things. It’s a competition. A few years back, I was dragged to Vodka Revolution (Revs they call it) and someone spent £150 on shots in one go. Fucking idiotic. That’s half a flight to New York. Crass and stupid. The whole thing could be avoided if we just measured our dicks and then went home.
“We’re going to Browns,” the IT guys say. They were dealt a rough hand when Mother Nature was dishing out faces. Poor nerds. I kind of like them, though – they’re sweet. There’s less cocksure bullshit with the IT guys.
Browns is a notorious strip club in Shoreditch. I had a brief spell of going to such establishments about five years ago, but in the end they just depressed me. I was talking to a blonde, perma-waxed dancer there once.
“What’s your name?”
“What’s your actual name?”
“Laura,” she sighed. We looked at each other for a moment and there was an unspoken understanding between us.
“This is really shit.”
“Yeah, I know.”
I haven’t been back to Browns since and I decline the offer this time.
I have been writing. Takes quite a long time, doesn’t it? But it’s going well. Today, however, all I can squeeze out of my brain is this meandering blog entry. I guess any writing is better than no writing.
I can’t do hangovers anymore. My mouth tastes like a tequila shot poured into an ashtray and every time I blink it hurts. I should have had the foresight to WFH. Thankfully, my opulent gym (I allow myself these frivolities occasionally) has beds peppered around the swimming pool. I’ll join the rest of the broken boys and girls and wrap myself up in a towel and get some kip this afternoon. I’ll write I have a three hour meeting in my diary. Nobody ever checks that stuff.