Drinking made me homeless

I try not to drink too often with work colleagues. Most people that have witnessed alcohol pass my lips will know of the chaos, confusion, stupidity and self imposed misfortune that follows. Wisely I’d planned to keep displays of self destruction away from my fellow professionals… I failed.

 

On my debut drinking session with work I quickly learnt that it is unforgivable to simply buy a drink. The correct etiquette is to purchase a drink of choice AND a Jäger bomb with each round. It’s a recipe which soon leads to a black curtain encasing my brain and my body switching to auto pilot mode. Throughout that night I was spotted in various locations displaying differing behavioural patterns. The first sighting saw me verbally berating passing business men progressing down Chancery Lane and shortly after I was found asleep on a bench at Oxford Circus underground. A colleague fed me water and put me on the train. I soon fell back to sleep and travelled to the end of the line with no more trains running. Time to ‘one- ring’ my wife and request directions home. She failed to comply. It was at that point I decided to start a one man revolution against the repulsive invasion of modern technology into our everyday lives. With the form of a javelin thrower I launched my phone into the main road and instantly felt the comfort of knowing I’d made the world a better place. After about twenty seven different buses I made it home. Having originally set off somewhere between 9.30-10pm I didn’t arrive until gone 2am. Done correctly it should have been a 35minute journey door to door.

 

After a number of weeks I was surprisingly invited to drink with them again. We started in the work bar proceeding with the routine cycle of pint/bottle plus Jäger bomb. After persuading staff to keep the bar open for a further half an hour we moved to the Weatherspoons next door. I approached the bar and put in an order.

‘No, you’re too drunk.’

‘I’d like to speak to your manager immediately,’ I informed the po-faced waitress.

‘I’ll go and get him.’ She did just that.

‘Uuuum, I’m afraid your young waitress there has made a rather large judgement call. She believes that I am drunk when I have only had two drinks,’ I lied. ‘I’d like a pint of cider please.’

‘Yes sir,’ said the manager, pouring my drink. I shot the young waitress a look of ‘fuck you!’ and returned to my colleagues.

Shortly afterwards the manager threw me out of his establishment.  I was soon on a stationery bus at the bottom of Kilburn High road desperate to get to Chicken Cottage at the opposite end. The bus driver wouldn’t move because two Chavvy girls were drinking alcohol on the back seats. Fuelled by my lust for cheap fried chicken I addressed the unruly females.

‘Get off the fucking bus you’re ruining it for everybody else.’

They responded in a language that can only be known as ‘Chav.’ We argued a little more before they finally made their way off the bus. In doing so they threw their drinks forcefully into my face. It felt like I’d been fucking Maced. Whatever pineapple concoction they were drinking stung me eyes like fuck. A sea of passenger hands come forth offering tissues to wipe myself off. I knew at that moment that heroes smell of Pinacolada.

When I got to Chicken Cottage it was closed for refurbishments. I knew I’d have to upgrade to a kebab, which meant I needed more money. I went to the cash point and somehow managed to put my card into the slot where the receipt comes out. My card was stuck. I kicked the cash point six times and told two approaching males that the ATM was out of order. I went home hungry, cardless and the following day played my worst game of football in years.

 

Only last Friday I went out for more work drinks. I was only meant to stay out for a couple and was mindful to pace myself at that. Several hours later, with my stomach swimming in shots, I found myself in a bar full of ping pong tables. My recollection of what happened halts, until once again I arrived at the bottom of Kilburn High road. It was then I suffered a rude awakening. Where was my bag? This was bad news. My wife had gone to Barcelona for the weekend and my keys, IPod, football kit and other such valuables were in my bag. My immediate thought was not to worry; I’ll get myself arrested and sleep in the cells for a night. I set about my fool proof plan by kicking over every bin I could find along the high street. The Police didn’t come. I pulled out my phone and began calling mates for a place to crash for the night. The only one that answered lived in Carlisle. He laughed down the phone for ten minutes before saying, ‘what would Orwell do in this situation?’

‘He would have at least had a pen and paper on him,’ I replied.’

I went to Chicken Cottage to help myself think. I didn’t even finish my ‘number 3’ meal because I was so angry.

‘I’ve lost my keys, I’m literally sleeping on the street,’ I text to my wife, ruining her pleasurable holiday. I went to my flat, hoping somebody would let me in so I could at least sleep outside my door. Nobody came in or out. I thought about smashing the window to my car or flat and flirted with catching a train back to Shropshire to sleep at Mum and Dad’s. Finally I went to inspect the vicinity near our bins, even the locked storage rooms that local tramps have been using for prostitution. Halleluiah!  God had placed an assortment of saviours at my feet behind the large aluminium waste containers. I positioned the unwanted mattress up against a wall. Conscious that it might be soured by humans or animal piss I found a plush cardboard box to lay on top of it. As far as cardboard boxes went this was a fucking Hilton and even had a lid. There was also a duvet nearby that felt unreasonably dry. I crawled into my large box, pulled the duvet over me and shut the lid down to block out any light. I was five star tramping.

 

I slept from 1.50am until 6.05am, only woken by the haunting realisation of losing my bag. I had been warm and comfy throughout the night, my only concern being that I might be in somebody else’s bed or that a fox may poke its nose into my abode and bite off my face. I caught a train and bus to North Acton to knock on the door of friends unannounced. The door opened.

‘Sean, I’m thinking of giving up drinking, essentially it’s made me homeless.’

‘Come in,’ he replied. He gave me a sheet and I went into the spare bedroom. When I re-woke the house was quiet. I helped myself to the internet to message colleagues about the whereabouts of my bag and put my dead phone on to charge. The bag would be in one of two bars, abandoned on public transport, or stolen as I slept in one of the aforementioned. Eventually I worked out the name of the bar and phoned ‘Bounce’ in High Holborn.

‘Did anyone hand in a green and black bag last night?’     

            BINGO! They had it. I went to collect it in the afternoon and my belongings were still intact. I briefly checked into my flat for a shower and to take a photograph of my cardboard bed. Then I returned to the house in North Acton to drink. Carrying a black bag full of cider my transformation into a tramp was complete.

Who’s got ‘Big Issues?’

The other week, as I walked to work with a Northern friend, it quickly became apparent the differing points of interest we possessed. Whilst he perused the impressive historically significant buildings leading from the Strand to Fleet Street, I failed to answer questions as to what they were and instead pointed out the various favourable dwellings of the local vagabonds. Masterfully I highlighted a small alcove that would make good sleeping ground if I was a tramp in the locality; I warned of the blonde haired homeless man we would pass sat outside Tesco’s Express, before nodding my head at the Big Issue seller on the corner of Chancery Lane.

Frequently I find myself attracting and connecting with street urchins, possibly because looking at me is like delving fifteen years into their past? The blonde man outside Tesco’s Express I like. He has a friendly if not weathered face, is always grateful and exchanges a daily thumbs up with me. Weekly I grace his filthy palms with whatever change I have and wish him well for the day ahead. ‘The Big Issue’ seller however is a more awkward passing.

Imagine, if you will, a walrus wearing a red cap (too small for his head) and an immovable lump of snot wedged to the more central wall of a left nostril and you might just know the man. Quickly I progressed from a discreet nod of my head to a more elaborate head bow and ‘good morning.’ His usual response would be a snarl and an exaggerated shrug of the arms and shoulders. If my IPod fell quiet at the opportune moment I would also hear him declare the words, ‘unbelievable, is anybody going to even look at me?’ to an uncaring audience.

On one occasion, during my choreographed ‘good morning’ and nod, I saw his mouth moving frantically in my direction. I pulled a headphone out of my ear in time to hear him say, ‘is it a good morning?’

‘Well it’s quite sunny,’ I replied.

‘I haven’t sold one magazine all week,’ he growled, ignoring my response. I looked at him silently, sensing he had more to say. ‘People don’t even have the decency to look me in the eye, or if they do they look at me like a piece of shit.’ I glanced down at his reddened swollen fist, to make sure that he wasn’t about to punch me. ‘You know what?’ he continued.

‘What?’ I replied, professionally playing along.

‘Do you know what this French lady said to me the other day?’

‘What?’ Fuck I’m good at this game.

‘She told me that I might sell more magazines if I wasn’t so aggressive.’

‘You are pretty aggressive,’ I thought, as he laughed in disbelief. ‘I don’t think you have an aggressive manner,’ I said.

‘It’s fucking shit,’ he said. ‘Absolutely fucking shit, I’m thinking of quitting you know, it’s not worth it.’ I watched him spin three hundred and sixty degrees, talking at me, the wall, and thin air.

‘Well, I hope it get’s better for you,’ I said, walking away and feeling like a slight cunt for not buying a magazine.

The mornings continued in the same fashion. Sometimes he would nod back to me, sometimes he would simply rant loudly at the rushing commuters, ‘somebody look at me!’ Despite me being one of the very few that actually acknowledged him each morning I felt more and more of a bastard for not buying a magazine. Walking past him became a chore. It was as if he looked at me with more scorn for actually noticing him and then deciding not to purchase the ‘Big Issue,’ but £2.50 a week is a sizeable margin to spend, on a magazine that you don’t even want from a snotty nosed walrus with attitude.

Recently he answered my ‘good morning,’ once more. After asking him if sales had picked up he told me that he’d only sold ten magazines all week and that his target is thirty five. I tried to sympathise stating that thirty five was a lot. He rubbished my support, informing me that the others on pitches nearby sell thirty five and that it should be easy considering that five thousand people pass him every morning between 8-9am.            ‘

Alright, I’ll buy one off you tomorrow,’ I said. His frown slightly straightened.

The next morning I stuck to my promise. As I handed him £2.50 I saw him smile for the first time.

‘You’ll feel good for the rest of the day.’

‘Hopefully it will bring me good karma,’ I replied. I needed good karma. That afternoon I had an audition for Bear Grylls ‘The Island 2.’ There were fifty to a hundred people with the same 4.30pm time slot as me. After being told that 70,000 people had applied and that we had done well to make it this far I was led into a room with 12 other men. Twenty minutes later, having had one minute and twenty seconds to answer two spontaneous questions, a lady entered the room and said, ‘you can all go now, none of you have made it through.’ The process had been brutal and I was devastated. In my head I was already on the island and only three days prior had ordered some nice new swim shorts.

The following day he stopped me, smiled and said, ‘how was your karma?’ I didn’t have the heart to tell him.

‘Not bad,’ I replied, ‘I’ll try and buy it more often.’

I got into the office at 8am and was the only cunt doing overtime. At that moment I couldn’t recall a moment when I’d last felt so alone… Maybe I’d be more content as tramp?

Men at Gyms are TOSSERS

I am a man that goes to the gym. My body is not a temple, but it does help you look and fuck better. I use a council gym, meaning that it smells of odours of the poor. Not long ago someone actually shit themselves there. The trail of human turd traversed across the tiled changing room floor like a hopscotch game gone horribly wrong. It only halted by somehow climbing the wall by the end shower. A yellow cone bearing a false announcement was the extent of the clean up for an hour. The floor may well have been slippery, but nowhere on that bright yellow warning did it mention shit. I returned the following day. The floor was clean but the wall by the shower still held the marks of a revolting accident. Every time that I visit a cubicle I find myself wiping piss off the seat or flushing other peoples shit.

Sadly it’s not just the changing rooms that are full of shit. The gym displays it in male form. There is something about the gym environment that brings out the inner tosser of a man. Maybe it’s the overwhelming presence of testosterone? Maybe it’s the mirrors? But whatever it is I constantly find myself methodically working my way around machines looking at men and thinking ‘what a tosser!’

There are several behavioural traits I have witnessed that cause me to have this reaction:

•  THE PERVERTED “HELPERS” – Some men seem to think the gym as the ideal location to pick up women. The presence of an attractive female walking past seems to have a domino effect of men being able to lift an inhuman amount of weight, albeit only for half a rep. Male eyes collectively follow the peachy female ass, before turning to their mate (or a stranger) and nodding in a manner that says, ‘I would wreck that.’ This behaviour of course is quite acceptable, it is when man purposefully interrupts a female workout to “assist” that it isn’t. I have seen countless men in my gym stop girls mid workout to inform that they ‘are doing it wrong’ or ‘you should do it like this.’ Not content with verbal instruction they will then stand behind the girl and manually assist them with their movement. It’s the classic pub scene, of man teaching woman how to hold a pool cue, except this kind of carry on has no business in a fucking public gym. I have yet to see one girl benefit or enjoy this type of hands on assistance. Usually the female in question will cut her routine short, offer a weak yet polite thank you, and disperse to the opposite side of the gym to finish her session uninterrupted.  Of course there is a place for perversion in the gym. I often glare and reproduce filthy thoughts, but I do so in silence and keep it to myself. Do not be so open in your perversion. – TOSSERS.

• THE POSERS – It still surprises me the arrogance of some men. If you’re in a gym there is probably a slight chance that you are quite arrogant anyway, but to have the audacity to flex your muscles in front of a public mirror for two minutes flat is something else. It’s ok to look at yourself and watch your muscles bulging as you are working out. It’s even ok to look at your impressive naked body in the mirror as soon as you get to the privacy of your own home. But to hold your bicep in the ‘swan’ pose, in front of forty plus people, without trying to be sneaky or discreet is scandalous. The worst culprits are those that do twenty sit up’s before lifting their t-shirts in front of the mirror to see if they have magically sculpted a six pack. – TOSSERS.

• THE NOISEY – Ok, yep, you’re in a gym we know you’re lifting weights. There is no need to draw attention to yourself by grunting like a hungry Neanderthal. You’re not a professional weight lifter so stop pretending that you are. I know that you’re only doing it because you want us to see how much you are lifting, I know because your eyes dart around the room afterwards, hoping to engage someone in conversation about how strong you are. I can strain in silence, my face might contort, but I don’t sound like I’m shitting out a cactus. These are the type of cunts that also grunt during sex.  Sometimes the grunt isn’t enough, or they haven’t quite worked their way up to the confidence levels of the grunter, so instead decide to drop their weights to the floor rather than place them down in a controlled manner. This really pisses me off. The huge thud is designed to say ‘everyone look how much I am lifting’ when in actual fact all it says is, ‘these weights are way too fucking heavy for me.’ – TOSSERS.

• FUCKING TEENAGERS – That’s the problem with using a council gym you get fucking teenagers there. Teenagers haven’t got the self motivation to work out by themselves so do so in gangs. They hang around equipment in groups of four or five for half an hour so nobody else can use it. Then they don’t even use the equipment properly. Many a time I have seen boys stab the pin into the heaviest weight possible and instead of trying to lift it they hang from the machine, with all their body mass, like a fucking monkey. Worst of all they think they are cage fighters and walk around jabbing each other on the arm or pretending to kick each other in the face. Yeah great work out, fuck off. – TOSSERS.

• THOSE THAT DO FUCK ALL – Some men use the gym to socialise. Clearly not having a friend set of their own they prowl the gym looking to make eye contact with someone. A bit like the ‘perverted helpers’ from point one, they often prey on those they don’t think are performing the exercise correctly. Gaining your attention they will tell you how it should be done, or how they do it themselves to gain maximum benefit. The strange thing however is that you never actually see these men practicing what they preach. They read articles in ‘Mens Health’ magazine and talk a good game, but are there to chat rather than exercise. There is one guy I regularly see telling gym users to lift lighter weights, because ‘it is more important to get the full range of movement rather than doing half a job with twice the weight.’  To a degree he may be right, but who wants to listen to a pot bellied man that has splashed a bit of water on his t-shirt to give the impression of a hard work out. He hasn’t tried talking to me yet, but that’s because my eyes say ‘fuck off’ whenever he is near. Mobile phones are also supposed to be banned from the gym, but everybody brings one with them, because cunts in this day in age can’t live without them. It pisses me off greatly when a man is on the machine you want to use, but is sat there talking on his phone. You gesture in a manner that suggests you are waiting to use it, to which he lowers the phone to say, ‘I’m still using it mate.’ No you’re not, you’re on the phone you absolute twat. There is also a geeky guy in my gym that brings a book with him. He sits on the leg extension and does one rep every eight minutes whilst constantly glued to a book most probably about fucking wizards. If you’re not using the gym get the fuck out. – TOSSERS.

• GLOVES – C’mon. If you’re a professional, or Michael Jackson, I can understand the use of gloves, but at this level piss off. Gloves for the average gym user are simply placebos; they’re not really going to make that much difference when you’re stuck at 45kgs. Besides you’re in the gym, you probably fancy yourself as a bit of a tough nut so put the gloves down. You’ve got calluses on your hands because you wank too much – TOSSERS.

As I write this I realise that when I go to the gym I can be seen wearing very short vintage Boca Junior shorts and a blue bandana wrapped around my head. Often I also wear pink leopard skin socks. Gym users probably look at me and think that I am the tosser.  Well they are quite wrong… I am not one of the above.