A remarkably interesting weekend of intrigue and suspense.
Well, not really.
I have just returned from Simcha on the Square, an afternoon of 'celebrating Jewish culture' in Trafalgar Square. While this didn't actually involve standing in a corner and bitching about someone or gossipping about a divorce (as normally happens), I got to see an attractive Israeli singer belt out very Middle Eastern songs, and missed the Bottle Dance from Fiddler on the Roof. I also spent most of the time looking after my father who at 74 isn't far off from entering his second childhood, even if he insists he isn't.
But the facts speak for themselves; me having to say gently 'This way, Dad' as I tugged his arm when he waddled aimlessly into a crowd of tourists, or buying him an ice cream from Uncle Dovvy's kosher ice cream van and watching in astonishment as he ate it like a 3-year-old with mouth wide open well before he very slowly raised the cone to his face and covered himself in goo. I even had to get a tissue from my pocket and wipe ice cream off of him, which he objected to. I don't think he likes being treated as if he's senile.
Dad spotted a couple of people he knew there which got him quite excited, other old folk who he hadn't seen for years and whose names had eluded him. One friend, Cyril and his impressive moustache, came over and said 'Hello, Dolly, how are you?' to my step-mother, except the woman in question wasn't my step-mother but a random lady stood behind my Dad in the ice cream queue.
'That's not Dolly,' said my Dad to Cyril.
'You're not Dolly?' said Cyril to the woman.
'I'm not Dolly,' said the woman. 'I just want an ice cream.'
For my part, I kept out of the 'Where's Dolly?' debacle (She's in Israel, getting away from my Dad), preferring instead to text Nothing Man to see if there was such a thing as a cocaine hangover.
I say this because I had spent last night with Ed, a fellow NaNoWriMo attempter whose computer hadn't crashed and had thus recently completed his 50,000 word novel, which he had self-critiqued as "complete shit".
At the same time, Nothing Man texted me to confirm that he was staying in to write, and was that very moment holed up in his room staring at a monitor. I replied that he was going to miss out on my cocaine orgy as I intended to finish off the final gram I had purchased for Chopper's stag last week.
So I composed my drugs text and pressed 'SEND' and looked up. Standing there was Nothing Man doing his best to look casual and indifferent. 'Awright?' he said.
We all had some beers. I went to the toilet several times. Then the others went to the toilet too. Then Ed went home grinning and Nothing and I went to the toilet and traversed the West End, cursing it and ourselves for no longer knowing where to go to after 12am.
We eventually settled for LA2s, a place I'd been to once before in my wild and crazy youth and recalled having quite a good time. Now, however, Nothing Man was quick to inform me that we were probably the oldest ones there. He was right. Everyone else looked like young, emaciated fluffy chinned urchins.
They'll all gain weight soon. Fuck 'em.
A combination of alcohol and coke meant I was suddenly very eager to talk to lots of women, even if none of them wanted to talk to me. I was ruthlessly charming, cheeky and devilishly witty, I thought, even if the reality was more akin to a drunk, coked up old twat trying his utmost to cop off with someone. I joined women's conversations and got sneered at, and tried chatting up a cute girl who then pretended to be an Italian who spoke no English. But my pièce de résistance was undoubtedly seeing two girls take pictures of each other with their camera phone, so I offered to take one of them. Gingerly, they agreed, then hugged each other and smiled as I lifted the phone to my face.
It was at exactly that moment that it occurred to me that I could do something excruciatingly funny. In fact, it was going to be the most hysterical thing anyone had ever done, in the history of comedy, ever.
I was going to run off with the phone.
It made sense at the time - be handed a stranger's phone, almost take a picture of them, then leg it. Not very far of course, just far enough for the hilarious gag to work, return with the phone and a grin, laugh uproariously together, then go back to theirs for a foursome.
Except I was in a crowded club. I got as far as two inches, accidentally shoulder-barging into a neighbouring blonde and obliterating her drink. She stared at me in disbelief, and I stared back.
'What the fuck did you do that for?' she yelled.
'Oh god, sorry.'
'Yes, I am aware of that. I'm extremely sorry.'
Then the girl whose phone I'd attempted to briefly nick casually walked over and held her hand out.
'And I'm sorry to you too. That gag backfired.'
She said nothing. She simply took her phone back and gave me a well-deserved slap round the face.
So, with that humiliating event hammering the final nail into my coffin of sex, I'm now firmly back to square one. No more drugs for me, even if it was excellent A-grade coke and rather moreish and habit forming. My cycling's gone the way of the Dodo, I'm smoking way too much, and my life is still fabulously dull.
Once again, I find myself confronted with the usual problems to correct.
And on the subject of fabulousness, except this really isn't - I had hoped on Friday night to pass out for a good 12 hours sleep and catch up on all that the stag took out of me. Instead, I had a deeply disturbing dream - for a heterosexual male idiot at any rate - which snapped me into consciousness with a vengeance. Although the details of the dream are vague, I specifically recall a blue, ankle-high Mr Snuffleupagus from Sesame Street telling me earnestly in his dopey voice, 'Don't worry Fweng Ebola, it's perfectly normal to be gay.'
I woke up in a cold sweat and couldn't get back to sleep. Now can someone please tell me what the FUCK that is supposed to mean? Is my strange insistence on wanting to sleep only with stunning, six foot tall curvy Amazonian models my brain's way of excluding me from all womankind because I secretly crave cock? And what the fuck's with Mr Snuffleupagus? Why am I dreaming about Muppets?
I am never doing drugs again.