In an ironic twist to my last post, I found myself in a pub last night, buying a shedload of pornography I really didn't want from an irate Northerner about to punch my lights out.
Said Northerner is a mate of mine, and said porn-selling is his opportunity to claw back some of his debts. Sadly, I'm in debt too, and although I was keen in principle to own more porn (albeit before my Mum got in on the act and ruined the whole concept for me), when it came to handing over my hard-earned cash yesterday, I really resented being the proud new owner of 'Analgeddon' and five other titles.
Nonetheless, I can confirm it is slightly better than the tamer Bruce Willis vehicle, albeit with less self-satisfied grinning at the end.
I've been out every night this week by sheer accident. My attempts to catch up with old friends (and reluctantly buy grot) all converged at once, and I am utterly desperate for sleep. Like a mobile phone that is almost dead to the world, I'm getting just enough recharging at night to function during the day, but little else. For god's sake, don't let me make calls.
Tonight would've been my chance to catch up on sleep, but I had been summoned to my Mother's house in outer fucking London. I wasn't in the mood for a two-hour round trip after work, barely able to keep my eyes open, yet there I was, leaving my healthy free bike ride locked in the office while I paid through the nose to get a train out of the city. My Mum's Hungarian housekeeper wanted me to connect to the house's wireless broadband, which I was fairly confident about.
Except no-one told me the whole fucking laptop would be in Hungarian.
So for three hours tonight, I pressed buttons and tried to decipher the world's most impenetrable language so Maria could ultimately email her daughter in Budapest. But to no avail. Fathoming out a stubborn laptop is bad enough without having 'A hálózati beállításokól fűggően ajelzónak 128 vagy 256 bitesnek kell lemmie. Ez elérhető 8 vagy 63 ascii karakter, illetve, 64 hexadecimális karakter bevitelével' flash in front of you a dozen times a minute. And having a Hungarian whose grasp of English is poor at best huff in exhasperation when you point to the above sentence and yell 'What the fuck is that?' didn't help. And nor was her constant cry of
'Give machine yours key. Yours KEY!
'What, Maria? What??'
So I go home dejected, having been unable to fix the damn machine, but being a pack of dodgy Eastern European Viceroy cigarettes up on the deal. And then I get to the tube and find the Victoria line closed for repairs. In my anger, I'm forced to take the Northern Line, but I accidentally go the wrong way and end up at King's Cross. Those utter, utter, utter, utter, utter LRT cunts, and my shit bearings.
But on the plus side, I've found myself purchasing a ticket to the godforsaken Costa Del Sol again, to once more undertake a boozy holiday I absolutely should've got out of my system by now. It is, as last year, at The Nothing Man's parent's holiday home and this time, we've set ourselves the three remaining weeks to avoid all junk food and beer, and exercise like we're going to a cheap string of bars in Southern Spain to hopefully have drunken anonymous sex with a gaggle of cheerful girls from Lancashire.
I'm not going to lie, I need this. All my holidays, and I've not had so much as a kiss (not counting a pair of Thai hookers I snogged by accident then panicked about). This holiday will be my Last Hoorah, my final childish bingeing abroad and yes, I will be out on the pull. I'm even considering dyeing my hair a darker colour, although last time I dyed it, blond, to be specific, it went properly ginger. That was fun. Nevertheless, in the meantime, I intend to lift tons of weights, wake up and do 100 crunches a day and, in under a month, have sweaty, rampant sex with a cute girl I've just met.
This Is Definitely Going To Happen.
And if it doesn't, as I strongly fucking suspect, I've always got Kinky Butt Freaks and Slam it in Every Hole to wile away the long nights when I get back.