I am sat in my pit, paper strewn over my bed and clothes rakishly dumped on the floor, when our resident mouse shot under my closed bedroom door and behind my desk. I stood up to see what the speeding black blur was when it decided to shoot back under the door and into the sanctuary of under our fridge. I'd estimate that he propelled himself at about 60mph.
That motherfucker's been here for a year, and he's still not paying any rent.
In non-mouse related news, am pleased to say I've completed my seventh stag of recent times. I would also like to add to any would-be Phils reading that this is in no way a snubbing of your status of Stag, or indeed of the event itself. It's just that I've had my fill, Phil, of obscene drinking and £100+ nights out.
But it was fantastic. Friday night was spent in a rock pub where we all wore rock t-shirts. (I looked suitably incorrect in a baggy black Skid Row affair). We all moved on to Nandos where I got the shits, then on to the Intrepid Fox, formerly an old haunt of ours when it used to be a bog-standard bar called the Conservatory until it became a lesbian hangout (which was also great fun.) Now it is full of rather angry looking people with chains in their thoraxes jiving to Thrash and Death and Vom-Rock who were strangely polite when you talked to them.
Yet it was all rather bewildering as I thought that night was just a quiet precursor before the Saturday Stag, and not actually Stag Part 1. I avoided the Saturday morning football to get my haircut (I was called 'Cunt' several times for this) and headed back out to town on the Saturday where we went bowling. I managed to get a strike which counted for something. I also managed about four gutterballs and punched a wall. We then moved on to an O'Neills to watch England play Andorra (population: 4) where we made it look as if we were struggling against Brazil. Hippy Dave left midway because he felt sick, and never returned. We moved on again to Karaoke where I once again felt the urge to yell 'If I Were a bloody Rich Man'. We finished up in the LA2 nightclub where we had the misfortune to watch Rhys Fucking Ifans and his Sodding New Band (I have no idea of their actual name, but I would like to suggest that.)
We got a cab back to West London (from Tottenham Court Road via Buckingham fucking Palace), and Phil threw up out the window. Mission Accomplished.
I have no desire to calculate how much that debauchery cost me. I have a holiday in five days that I'm supposed to be saving for, and I regret to say I'm in an overdraft warzone already. I am going to be well and truly fucked (non-sexually) when I return.
And on that note, Martin, he of the would-be-joining-me-on-holiday-if-his-ankle-wasn't-broken camp, will be seeing a specialist on Wednesday. If he gets the thumbs up, he will indeed be joining me on a romp through Warsaw, Krakow, Prague, Vienna, Bratislava and Budapest - or a slightly scaled back version if time is against me/ us.
But at this stage, I will either be going it alone and feeling uncomfortable as I become an unwilling tourist (and I hate being a duck-out-of-water, where-the-hell-am-I? I-look-confused-and-naive unwilling tourist), or else not caring so much that I'm lost and being stamped on by the Polish mafia, because my mate's with me and he's getting stamped on too.
Don't get me wrong, I've travelled extensively on my own before - ahem - but this time it's all become a tad unplanned. I'm sorta excited though. Besides, the mouse deserves a little break.