Friday night. Holy night. My boss left work before me and I'm pottering around at 6pm, finishing up the fucking admin.
But I had a do to attend and being the fuckwitted male that I am, I had double booked. Sabina my lovely lady Muslim friend was going to get pissed to the gills to celebrate quitting her job while in the meantime, I had also promised to meet Peach and Vi at exactly the same time.
Except I forgot that Vi was going to be there and so we spent a polite five minutes chatting before I realised that she knew every deviant thing about me and I forgot she was a buxom Australian.
Nothing Man accompanied me as I had texted him an hour earlier to see if he fancied a post-work drink. He was early, so I was subjected to his rage brought on mainly by his dead phone battery, which was hardly my fucking fault, you charge-forgetting retard.
But Peach and Vi were fantastic company. The booze was flowing disturbingly quickly as we chainsmoked in a cunningly loopholed, well heated roof terrace that felt like we were indoors. Pity I can't afford the quarter of a million pounds annual membership.
Sabina meanwhile called to inform me of her impending do, then forgot to call me back with further directions. We stayed put, and all got accidentally hammered beyond belief, something I didn't even achieve at my last two stag dos. I can honestly say that I can't recall the conversation, but I know it was scintillating.
Then, suddenly, I'm navigating the underground alone, anxious to make the two tubes home in the ten minutes before the ineffectual bastards closed for the night. 24-hour city, my arse.
I saw a tube with its doors open, and ran for it. I ran apprehensively as I wasn't sure if it was going in the right direction, but my plan was to casually board, calmly ask if it was going north, then smugly stay or desperately leave, depending on the answer.
But I managed neither. Instead, I found myself lying on the floor, screaming. My left leg had decided to not mind the gap and was now dangling under the train with all the rats and flesh-eating mechanics, my left buttock on the platform whilst the right side of my torso clung onto the train like Sylvester Stallone clinging onto a mountain.
I scrambled up in a panicked frenzy, boarded with as much dignity as I could muster, and asked the lone, distinctly unimpressed girl with her head buried in a book if the tube was headed my way.
The next morning, I'd discovered I'd ripped my jeans in the process. In fact, it was discovering the ripped jeans that made me remember I'd nearly amputated myself.
The rest of my working week has been distinctly ordinary. I've managed to resume my cycling to work, swimming, then cycling home with a 9-hour period in between getting my soul eroded at a desk. I am still finding it hard to stop smoking, cease being cynical, and terminate the consumption of junk.
Nevertheless, I do have Chopper's wedding on Saturday, and I'm a third of a Best Man, which is a real 33.3% honour. The other Best Men decided that I could write the speech so I did, only for them to recoil in horror at the actual text.
Apparently, I made Chopper sound like a complete cunt, which we all agreed was accurate if a little unfair for his wedding.
So now we're all re-writing it into a generic, non-specific roast. Apparently, most of the guests may not find it amusing that, when I once asked Chopper if he absolutely had to fuck an animal, he replied with complete and utter conviction, and with lightning speed, I might add, a "shaved female monkey".
I have a second date tomorrow night, a mere two fucking months since our first one. Is that promising, or isn't it? I really can't tell.