Saturday, June 11

Wakey wakey

Eleven o' clock - a lie in at last for Jack. A quick glance around the house doesn't seem to shed any light on the goings on of the previous evening. I'll wander into the loo. Can't remember where my clothes are. Wonder where Dr. Rob is, can't see him about anywhere.

Oooh, someone left something nasty on the floor. Hope they've got some Imodium. failing that a packet of Bisto might have the same effect.

A quick leak, a small but delicately fragranced early morning fart. I think I'll wash my hands just to make sure all the through the night ball scratching debris is removed. Sorry girls, but you can't beat a good ball-scratch. I've often wondered if there is a female chuff equivalent. OK, whilst we're at it why not take a good look in the mirror before lobbing some cold water into the face to try and stimulate some sort of life. At this point the true horror of the imprinted sheet and pillow wrinkles leap from the mirror surface to some deep primeval area of the Amygdala. Face it Jack, your 43 and your either about to descend into a wrinkled hangdog jowly nightmare of an appearace, or you will ascend to that Sean Connery distinguished rogueish look. The mirror seems to indicate a descent patter will be the most likely route. For the first time ever, I start to think about the positives of cosmetic facial surgery. perhaps Sir Cliff is about to become my role model.

A quick splash of water, a few pulls of the face. No improvement. Bollocks, they'll have to live with this particular boat then. I walk back into the living room. I'm pleasantly surprised by the smiles on the others faces. A quick walk to the kitchen area to pour a drink. I open the fridge. Big Blogger appears to have supplied some cold cans of Tizer, as if anticipating my favourite ever chemical based soft drink. I open the can, look at the others, still smiling at me....rather oddly if the truth be told.

I pour the Tizer down my throat. It's revolting.....aaaah....that'd be because it's that bastard spawn called Irn Bru. I think yet again to myself that there are some evil vicious people in the world and the creators of this Devil's Semen are amongst them. Revolting as it is though it should have all gone down my parched throat, at least it would have if my brain was co-ordinating my body , but a slight mis-alignment between my hand and mouth means half the Bastard Bru runs down the outside of my neck, down my chest, across my stomach into the packed lunch area. Fuck , the Bastard Bru's cold, no wonder the old chap has retracted as if I'd just dived into the North Sea in February with an ice pack down my trunks.

The gales of laughter from the others wash over me.

Next time I'll try and remember to put my pants on before going into the kitchen.

Later, GrocerJack


Post a Comment

<< Home