Drinking in the Morning

Today I had a little walk down memory lane when I sat in the bath with a bottle of pink champaigne getting ready for work. It hit me a lot harder than I remember it doing and I went into my room and boked in the bin. Talk about bad timing. If I'd just needed to do it when I was in the bathroom I could have done it in the bog and flushed it away.

I had to carry the stinking mess downstairs in a carrier bag to chuck it in the bin. I was met by Hot Baby Roy and Battle Cat.
"Where's Gingerella?" I asked.
"I don't think you should be calling her that. She should be called something like Hot Firey Love Lady."
"Maybe," I shrugged. "Where is she?"
"She's away back to her house they're having a meeting with the landlord about Mother of Bowling Ball. Hot Firey Love Lady is going to get him kicked out of the house. None of the other housemates like him so he'll get his mutherfucker."
"You know if you'd give me her address I'd like to go and give him a severe beating for you."
"I want to try it her way first," he said. "You can't always be there for scraps and I'm a lover, not a fighter."

I felt him tick something inside himself off from a very big long list of moments he's wanted to have in his life.

"That's true," I said just to underline it for him.

I hope Gingerella does get Mother of Bowling Ball kicked out then I can fight him on the streets.

Hot Baby Roy made me drink some strong black coffee before I went to work. He said it would sober me up but it didn't. It just left me still drunk and jittery and I was all giggling away to myself about nothing as I walked to work. I'm now sitting in the canteen feeling my guts slowly disolve into chewing gum. My poor bowels.

More Pain

I felt it was a bit warmer last night, so I walked down by the Lagan as if I was going by Jordanstown. All the way out past the back of the markets, down past where the Obel Tower still hasn't been finished and on out past the Seacat terminal.

There was a cold breeze blowing in off the harbour and I sat and squinted out into the distance at the cranes, wondering who goes out there to work with them and how somewhere not so far away from a city be so desolate.

I pissed myself to keep warm and downed my drink quicker so I could pish more. It won't matter, I was washing the trousers that night anyway.

There was no rain or snow and I wanted some.

I went back to my house and had a long bath. I let it go cold and filled myself another one. Then I huffed some felt tips to make me feel sleepy and went to bed.

Pink Champaigne and the Pleasures that will be Mine.

I've taken to sitting at the masonic compasses at custom house square now in the mornings before work, as you know. I've also taken to downing a full bottle of pink champaigne before I can face going in. It makes things just bareable, though I had tried vodka the first morning and all I did was stagger to work (falling a few times) and spend the morning boking in the disabled bogs. I was sent home, I said I had food poisoning. In a way I suppose it's the same thing.

Champaigne isn't cheap though I buy the cheapest bottle I can find. I like it to be pink, it's tastier and it is a soft colour that reminds me there are things in this city that aren't bleak and trying to slap you into your place, wherever that is.

I'm staking a claim for my home now, so sometimes in the morning I sit in the bath and have a shave, whether I need it or not, and snuggle up to foamy bubbles and a bottle of pink champainge. If I have it in the morning then I don't drink one at the masonic compasses.

I will one day drink this pink champaigne in a bath full of lovely ladies and the radio blarring Snoop Dizzle, for now it's all I can do to keep from falling asleep in it, that's why I never drink a second bottle in there.

The Leader of The Razorlight Fan Club Falls

The Banshee moved in next door today with Derek Baby so Fabian Wildman's pissed off about not being able to move there. He'd been brushing up on his sweaty metal moves and he was looking forward to comparing spandex with Derek Baby and now it's all gone to shit.

He was fumming about the house so I decided to get out and clear my head. I ran into Rock and Roll Stephen who was in a wile state. He said that his girlfriend had left him for some other dickhead who had skinnier jeans and looked more like Johnny Borrell.

"It's not a mark of a man who has the tightest jeans, she must be immature," I offered by way of consolation.

"Nobody's jeans are tighter than mine," he screamed. "I sit in the bath for hours to get them this tight, I'm going to get pains when I'm old."

He started blubbing and saying that he hated wearing tight jeans, he has all these infected ingrowing hairs on his legs and he can't walk properly anymore.

I offered to take him for a beer to cheer him up but he winced and looked even more panicked.

"I can't be seen with you," he screamed. "You're not cool, I need to be seen with someone who's cool to get her back."

I told him it wasn't going to happen. He was now on a long slow slide into uncoolness. The fact that he was using the word cool showed this. He'd be saying "groovy" next and meaning it, and wearing clothes for their comfort.

He fell on his knees and begged me to tell him this wasn't true but I said what he was doing only further showed this was the case.

"You know I used to hang about with you for cool points," I lied to him. "But not now, not now."

I walked away shaking my head while he lay on the street crying his wee indie heart out.