“Mrs Blogs”, said I. “I have had a most frustrating afternoon trying to organise things which it appears can’t be organised. Let us go out to have a beer. Maybe two. But no more than that.”
“Tremendous idea.”
Text Italian ex-workmate: ‘Come for a beer’.
Italian arrives. Some beers were consumed. Italian leaves. We leave. Shawarma. Plaça George Orwell in Barcelona. Full of degenerates, smackheads and normal people. Some cunt has a megaphone. Is making it go ‘Bleeeeeeeeeeee’ by pushing some button. Am tempted to go over and shove megaphone up his arse.
Some bloke with no teeth takes it off him to announce to everyone that he’s off his head. Some normal girl takes it off. He pleads like a child – ‘But missus, it’s not mine’. He calls over the bloke who own the megaphone who punches him in the head. Johnny Toothless doesn’t even notice. Hilarious. We move on to trendy bar.
Text football mate: ‘Come for a beer’.
Football mate texts: ‘Splendid idea. See you shortly.’
Football mate arrives. Another football mate arrives. Beers and cocktails are consumed.
Everything starts to become a blur. Vaguely remember ‘When’s de next fuckin’ bus ta Gaaaaaalway’ when discussing teaching English. Get invite to trendy bar’s first anniversary party. More beers.
Things move from vaguely remembered to not remembered at all. 8.30am. Ouch. Neck two painkillers. Mrs Blogs starts talking about funny things that happened.
“Shut up, Mrs Blogs. Go back to sleep.”
She does. So do I. And now here I am.
You might have gathered there’s fuck all going on with the Arsenal.
