(To be read in a dispassionate monotone):
A week at work with windy weather. Can't be bothered to cycle so spend four days on delayed tubes or buses. Didn't get into any interesting altercations or meet any cute women. Lack of excercise makes me tired and lethargic, so don't go to Martial Arts on Monday or Wednesday and am consumed by guilt. Feel fat and stupid.
Attempt to book ticket to New York but it goes wrong. Yell at poor bastards at Indian call centre when I realise price has shot up by a further £130. Re-arrange ticket for following week. Feel slightly better.
I take the day off on Friday to visit the dentist (one filling), then head off to Waterloo station. Meet Phil and Natalie, get train to Bournemouth. Train is five carriages shorter than normal as chavs have been smashing windows at Totton.
Bournemouth no warmer than London. Leave Phil and Natalie to pay my Auntie surprise visit. Her daughter, my cousin, is gravely ill, and I am accidentally drunk, a lightheadedness made more severe from the switch from friends on a train to lovely kindly Auntie in her living room. Auntie drives me to my mate Suki's, whose sofa will become bed.
Next morning, play football with old University friends and some older local men. Older local men beat us quite easily. I am castigated as the weakest link in the team and not voted Man of the Match by anyone. I did head the ball quite damatically at one point, but I also handballed twice, fouled a throw-in, and fouled the opposing striker by kicking his ankle and tripping him to the floor. Probably should've started playing football at eight, instead of 32. Knees now feel slightly wobbly and are making squish noise and hurt when I walk. Forgot to bring change of clothes. Have to shower with none of my own toiletries, and have no post-wash moisturiser. Whole shower experience lasts 40 seconds as my friends can see my nob. Called 'cunt' when I go back to changing room and ask if anyone has savlon for my grazed knee.
We go on to a dodgy pool hall to watch England underperform against Israel, which suits me as I'm not sure who to support. Am the only person on the planet happy with a nil-nil draw. Now drunk. Play pool. Am surprisingly Better Than Normal and manage to pot a ball with the cue behind my back. Lose anyway. Eighteen of us have a curry that takes nearly two hours to arrive. Drink more. Quietly regret my entire existence in a brief moment of introspection. Jamie steals my mobile phone and puts it back in my pocket, having changed the language to Romanian. Complete cunt. Return to sofa.
Wake up. Panic. Visit gravely ill cousin and her daughters who are becoming more attractive and ladylike. Go red. Shown home movies of their last holiday. Say goodbye to gravely ill cousin and call her by the wrong name, despite knowing her my entire life. Get train back to London buckling under weight of guilt and upper torso that's being propelled by aching thighs on top of fucked kneecaps. End up on a replacement bus as train track's under repair and Britain is a fucking joke. Get to London to find tube's being repaired too.
Arrive at flat. Chat to Large Northern Flatmate. Work on Monday. Consider Martial Arts but legs too fucked. This could be the beginning of the end for my shitkicking unless I force myself. On the plus side, I haven't smoked for 48 hours. On the minus side, I have moved on to crack.