I haven't actually woken up yet. The fact is I'm sat here in me boxers and dressing gown, having reluctantly got out of bed at 2.30pm to have a ciggie and make meself a coffee. Thank Christ I had the good idea to buy another twenty late last night. I haven't had to brave the outside.
The reason was a bloody late night with Neil, my friend in Stratford, who invited me to meet him after I'd attended a meeting in St James' Park on Friday morning. The meeting ended at 12.30, when everyone repaired to this pub down the road and ordered drinks. At a possible loose end for the afternoon (everyone else worked in London so were heading back. Me working in Brum and Colchester has advantages sometimes), I rang Neil after I'd checked my credit card balance and decided, despite the absence of payday for a week, that I could risk withdrawing £250 cash. My dad's voice crept in to my head, alarmingly, as I stood at the ATM "Don't do it, mate" it said. "NEVER take cash out on your credit card - you'll end up paying double by the time you've paid it off". I must have looked guilty as I punched in me pin. There I was, stuffing the illicit notes into my wallet like I'd just mugged some old girl for her pension. Phew. It passes though, the feeling of doom.
The rest of the afternoon passed enjoyably enough. Neil left work at 3.30 and met me in some bar just off Moorgate. We drank beer and ate a bowl of candied nuts and chatted about his dad's recent ear infection and people we din't like at work. We went back to his pad in Stratford about 5ish, him to change into shirt and jeans, me to have a wee in his bathroom and blunder upon a packet of 15 condoms with two left in it that fell out when I accidently opened his bathroom cabinet looking for a light switch.
Considering the two left as a sign he was enjoying a healthy love life with the beautiful Lauren (his girlfriend), the note he hastily scrawled for her and left on the coffee table was oddly charmless and curt. "Gone out with J - go to bed be back l8ter". "I can't text her" he said, seeing me looking as he wrote. "She'll be in about eleven anyway. Her mum and sister are taking her for a curry". Piss-up justified, we went.
Space and the sheer mundane (we're not the first to have a night out drinking on a Friday, let's face it. We've all been there) forbid me from describing the next few hours. But, like watching the Ipswich game on Channel 5, a few highlights are always welcome.
Mine are: The karaoke bar we stumbled into where pie-eyed City workers sang Abba with voices which ranged from Minnie Mouse on her wedding night to Scooby Doo being taken with vigour up the arse by The Jolly Green Giant; the Mexican joint that did cocktails '241' and where the tacos looked like a mouse's tear and were a fiver each, the bar which let us in, inebriated and laughing, and then wanted a tenner for a bottle of Desperado (we only had the one - the bouncer on the door seem surprised to see us exiting merely ten minutes after our entrance), then the pub which served London Pride and meat pies on the counter. Then we meandered back to Stratford by way of east end boozers where even the landlord had a 'Chelsea Smile' and finally to Westfields at 2am, into the Casino, where we blew £50 on roulette each and another £40 on bottled lager.
We retired at 4am, me with an unopened pack of 20 cigs from a late-night newsagent, Neil with the congealing remains of a curry he'd bought and which we'd both winced at on the first mouthful. Think it may have been a Phall. "Be nice cold in the morning" he said, optimistically.
Awoke at 8.30 with a mug of cold tea beside me and half a mug of spittle encrusted on my shirt shoulder. In my boxers and chilly, despite the lovely day outside. Had a shower. Got dressed. Met Lauren, back from a morning jog and carrying a carton of milk and a paper. Said 'hello' and chatted, no sign of Neil. Eyes bloodshot. 'Is that yours?' she asked, pointing to the rusty remains of a curry tray on their kitchen worktop. 'No' I said. 'It's Neil's'. 'Oh' she said, lips pursed. It was dumped unceremoniously into a Tesco bag and thence the bin.
Still no sign of Neil. It felt awkward. I tried chatting, but every word made my head thump. She got on with tidying. I remade their sofa bed, folding the sleeping bag I'd barely used into a vague rectangle. Then she said "You'd better get going. West Ham play Spurs at 12.30 and you'll get caught up in that at Stratford. "Oh" I said. "Thanks. I'll be off then. Say thanks to Neil for me. Tell him I'll call him later". She smiled. "Did you have a good night?". "Yes" I said. Then I said "Thanks for the sofa bed. Hope you enjoyed your curry?". "Curry?" she said. "Yeah" I replied. "Neil said you were out having a curry with your mum and sister". "Oh did he?" she said and her top lip disappeared.
So I left. I'd've had a fry up in the caff across the road except my guts were like lead and I fancied I could hear the strains of "Bubbles" floating away like a bomb siren somewhere in the vicinity. So I caught the bus to Stratford rail and got the hell out of London on the 9.37. Walked indoors at 11 and went straight to bed.
Tel sent me a text. His father-in-law did suffer a stroke by the way. He's still in hospital. Terry never met me for that drink on Monday. I've not seen him all week. He's been between Broomfield, Braintree and home. He's not been in the shop. He texted me on Monday night to call of the drink, saying "Need to take Mrs early tomoz so sorry cant haveabeer". This new text simply said "Id have dun Spurs towin unall'. I remembered we hadn't done our footy bet, and I was a bit ashamed. I felt like I'd let him down in some small way.
Soccer Saturday in me boxers. Bloody Bianca Westwood and her "It's all Leeds". We nearly got a draw as well.
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