and someone I knew had brought Ray Reardon as a special guest   Leave a comment

Today feels like a writing day, since I always write better with a hangover. My perception is all spiky and brutal and I get kind of manic. A series of unlikely events led me to drink an unwise amount of Stella Artois last night, although the way I’m feeling about Stella today makes me think that a molecule of that poverty-juice is an unwise amount to drink. I feel like the devil has kicked me eighty times in my sleep and then pissed in my brain. I dreamt I was obliged to watch some sort of Shakespeare-cum-snooker play (don’t ask) that a member of a minor local band was appearing in (I barely know this bloke but he seems a decent sort). All sorts of people from my so-called real life were in the audience, and someone I knew had brought Ray Reardon as a special guest. Because of the snooker connection people were pointing and whispering “…Ray Reardon…” Anyway the play was like, really, really painfully bad, and everyone was sitting there with gritted buttocks, and in the end I think the actors decided to give up. At this point minor band matey comes over to where Richard Rippin is showing me his expensive new acoustic guitar, and, obviously completely unhinged by his disastrous theatrical debut, proceeds to come over all nasty and threatening, and completely detunes Richard’s acoustic by way of making an aggressive gesture. I decide to leave, and ask to be dropped off outside the bookies (never even been in a bookmakers in real life). At this point I am woken up by my mother in law who wants to know whether a friend of hers can borrow a fridge freezer that I know absolutely nothing about, and my voice makes me sound like a gila monster on smack. Then I have to do my usual comedy routine of hustling a two year old through the breakfast scenarios and then depositing him in a room full of short, loud, innocent people and their seemingly-not-much-older and presumably not-much-more-experienced carers whilst looking and smelling as though I sleep in the basement of a pub every night. Lord Charles almost married this young American would-be-poet once who used to wistfully say “Oh, Life…” and sigh in a sort of rueful way. You fucking wait love.

Posted July 2, 2003 by peteum2013 in Uncategorized

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