Christmas Eve

Oh no. What have I done.

I am hanging out of my own arsehole after last night’s drinking. There’s an empty rum glass on the window sill that I must have stolen from the pub. There’s an unfolded lottery slip on my desk.

I drunk dialled several people.

But I am mortified at the text I sent Katy at 4am.

Perhaps the three hour conversation with Phil was also just as insensitive.

Oh no. What I have I done.

I’m not going to be able to forgive myself for this. Here comes that cold, militant, heartless inner voice to remind me. Like an abusive step-father that’s cracking his belt, that voice is coming for me.

I’m going to get it now.

Luckily, one of my drunk dials, Fatimah, called me back. She’s driving down to meet me, and we’re going out for food together. I called her because she was someone I didn’t feel at peace with, which was kind of the theme of those calls. I hadn’t spoken to her in over a year, and honestly thought something had happened between us that meant we’d never speak again. Thankfully, no love has been lost, it would seem.

 

Ode to a bro – a brode

I wrote a poem to Richard. We’ve not managed to meet or chat for a few weeks. We haven’t got round to finishing the track. I feel that my hyper homo-erotic bro banter might have put him off talking to me, but it’s more likely that he’s very busy with work and family.

It’s about the times we used to go to this crap club in Enfield called Eros which we thought was great at the time. Richard was usually the dubious designated driver.

Ok here goes:

Mr. Richard, he’s my friend

He’s my friend to the very end

We’ve been crazy, we’ve been mental

We’ve got mushy and sentimental.

I met Richard many moons ago

It was in an arcade through a mutual bro

That bro was called Marc, with a brother called Rich

Here’s how we partied in that son of a bitch.

Pre-drinks in them days was knocked back in the car

Manz was too poor to get licked at the bar

But manz kept it stylish, manz kept it fancy

Manz had gone fours on some Asti Spumante.

We cruised past the club and eyed up the queue

Put the car in a space and smoked a cigarette or two

Bowled up to the door but got blocked by the bouncer

I showed him my PASSPORT, bruv go click your counter

Gave up a fiver to pay for a ticket

Another pound for my jacket just so some chief won’t nick it

But the dance floor was pumping just a short bop away

I looked at my boyz – we were ready to play

We posed at the bar like we were ready to lord it

Forty pounds for champagne? Not sure manz can afford it

We poured out our glasses like serious g’s

Our bucket of Moët sent the girls to their knees.

Well not quite like that

But you know what I mean

They might have all blanked us

But that proves they’re keen

We brocked out to the Garage

In our shirts by Valentino

Ok the shoes were River Island

But the jeans were Moschino

With our garms looking sharp

And our love-guns on stun

We polished off bare Southern Comforts,

Price two for one

With my vision getting funny it was time to find a honey

I strutted down to the dance floor and found a frisky bunny

I moved in for that slow ting, all grinding here and there

She started licking up my face and pulling on my hair

This kiss was getting tricky

I was having trouble standing

Then BANG! I fell on top of her

But she softened up my landing.

Yeah that weren’t cool so I crawled away

Found my boys without delay

Should we go or should we stay?

Grab your coat I heard them say.

Drunk as skunks we left the club

We flopped into the ride

Rich ragged that Citroen to an inch of its life

Fuck knows how we all survived.

Next stop – Ruislip

But petrol station first

Coz manz was craving Mars drinks

So manz can quench their thirst.

And then the last stop – my house

Standard! Nice and quick

Big up my man Richie T

Those nights were proper sick.

Same thing next Wednesday yeah!