- She was throwing up all day,
- I had to go to Withington to watch action films from the nineteen nineties, and
- Kony
We were starting to think we were cursed, possibly because:
- I made fun of all them gipsies in that documentary I watched about gipsies, or
- Because she killed all them leprechauns ***
But then we actually arranged to meet up again!
To get to the meeting point I had to first make my way into town, and I went to the Piccadilly Gardens Caffe Nero to get a coffee while I waited for my bus.
And, whilst there, I saw some sights! ***2
After getting my large, hot drink (I'm not sure what was in it, as the menus are always in Italian for some reason), I went and sat outside, opposite what looked like a poorly Andy Warhol. And that's not just an offensive simile for the sake of it, this guy honestly looked like Warhol, a man famous for looking ill, except iller. If what he was typing on his laptop was anything other than:
- death threats,
- his own name, over and over again, or
- really well crafted erotic fiction,
I will eat my own hat. Or any other hat you can produce. Actually, not one of my hats, because I like my hats. Why else would I buy them?
Click pictures to enlarge
Except worse.
There was also music, namely this:
as a result of some old dude, wearing baggy brown and bag like clothing, who had fixed a generator and speakers to his push bike, and was, for a time, parked up next to where I was. After a bit he cycled off, the surprisingly phat sounding bass bobbing away into the distance. I don't know what he was getting out of all this, but Manchester isn't the sort of place where you have to worry about getting anything out of it, we're all just allowed to turn up and happen as and when we feel like it.
Oh, and there was also a woman who looked like she took her make up tips from factory seconds oriental hooker dolls. Taking her pit-bull for a walk.
Ah, and then off for my date!
I just went round to her's, and I'm not really going to tell you anything about that, but I will tell you about my first impressions of Denton, which is where she lives.
Since moving back to Manchester, I seem to have spent pretty much all my time in parts of the city, and its surrounding areas, in places that I have never been to before. Which is strange, kind of like you've had a year and a half craving for a cheddar sandwich, and you end up having haloumi on toast instead. In that it's still nice, it's still pretty tasty, but you're not really sure how you've ended up eating it.
Denton has a Manchester post code, but it's well out of the way. There were so many hills there, all collapsing in on each other, that it looked like someone had pulled the plug out, and all the streets were being pulled down the drain. Either that, or it looked like an M.C. Escher lithograph that had been drawn all over by a tipsy L.S. Lowry. The geology was just all over the place.
It's also one of those places where everyone there is actually from there. In all the years I've lived over here, I've met very few people who are actually from Manchester, as the city is essentially like a theme park for adults, where people from all over the country venture too to spin round as fast as they can before throwing up. And, if there's time, contracting something on the log flumes.
The tail end of that is that it's always odd to hear someone talking in a Manc accent, because it makes you realise what an invading parasite you are, coming into the city and forcing all the natives out into the sticks, before converting all their precious mills into trendy flats, S&M dungeons, and modern art galleries in which people ironically eat Eccles cakes and watch Man. City games that are being projected onto clouds of rising smoke from piles of burning money
But, Denton was alright anyway, and I had a good night.
Proper!
The day after, however, I was rough as fuck. Like having drunk twenty pints of crushed up pills rough.
I felt hanging.
Really bad. A proper state.
Which was strange, considering the fact that I am now:
TEETOTAL!
This was my first weekend of sobriety, so the fact that I felt grim despite having had nothing stronger than a cup of tea, has led me to the following conclusion:
HANGOVERS ARE JUST SOMETHING THAT HAPPEN AT THE WEEKEND, REGARDLESS OF WHAT YOU DO
Yeah, so this is going to be hard to work out anyway:
Since moving back to Manchester, I seem to have spent pretty much all my time in parts of the city, and its surrounding areas, in places that I have never been to before. Which is strange, kind of like you've had a year and a half craving for a cheddar sandwich, and you end up having haloumi on toast instead. In that it's still nice, it's still pretty tasty, but you're not really sure how you've ended up eating it.
Click pictures to enlarge
Yet again, I somehow seem to have drawn myself with a severely dislocated arm. Your human physiology confuses me.
Denton has a Manchester post code, but it's well out of the way. There were so many hills there, all collapsing in on each other, that it looked like someone had pulled the plug out, and all the streets were being pulled down the drain. Either that, or it looked like an M.C. Escher lithograph that had been drawn all over by a tipsy L.S. Lowry. The geology was just all over the place.
It's also one of those places where everyone there is actually from there. In all the years I've lived over here, I've met very few people who are actually from Manchester, as the city is essentially like a theme park for adults, where people from all over the country venture too to spin round as fast as they can before throwing up. And, if there's time, contracting something on the log flumes.
The tail end of that is that it's always odd to hear someone talking in a Manc accent, because it makes you realise what an invading parasite you are, coming into the city and forcing all the natives out into the sticks, before converting all their precious mills into trendy flats, S&M dungeons, and modern art galleries in which people ironically eat Eccles cakes and watch Man. City games that are being projected onto clouds of rising smoke from piles of burning money
But, Denton was alright anyway, and I had a good night.
Proper!
The day after, however, I was rough as fuck. Like having drunk twenty pints of crushed up pills rough.
I felt hanging.
Really bad. A proper state.
Which was strange, considering the fact that I am now:
TEETOTAL!
This was my first weekend of sobriety, so the fact that I felt grim despite having had nothing stronger than a cup of tea, has led me to the following conclusion:
HANGOVERS ARE JUST SOMETHING THAT HAPPEN AT THE WEEKEND, REGARDLESS OF WHAT YOU DO
Yeah, so this is going to be hard to work out anyway:
RECENT MISTAKES
- Not drinking?
- Getting too close to poorly Andy Warhol?
- Breathing in on the bus to Denton?
ANALYSIS
I just couldn't work out how I had ended up with morning after face, without drinking night before juice. And then one of my young, new house mates suggested:
"Maybe it's just your age?"
And, depressingly, that could be true?
"Hey Willis, it's your body. If you stay up past three am now, I am going to fucking ruin you. I am going to make you my hot finger nails across a cold blackboard bitch you worthless piece of ageing shit. Lots of love, your fleshy, failing shell. P.S. go fuck yourself."
Yish.
The bad feelings persisted today too, meaning I got a two day hangover from nothing.
HOWEVER!
I also had a flash of brilliance, as I so frequently do. And here it is!
IF NOT DRINKING BOOZE GAVE ME A HANGOVER, MAYBE NOT SNORTING AMPHETAMINES WILL PERK ME UP?
"Err..."
No, listen, honestly!
I realise I already hadn't taken phet, but I hadn't purposefully not taken it, in the same way that I had purposefully not drunk anything, two days previously. So, what I did, was I worked out who I could but some speed from, and then I simply didn't call them.
I realise I already hadn't taken phet, but I hadn't purposefully not taken it, in the same way that I had purposefully not drunk anything, two days previously. So, what I did, was I worked out who I could but some speed from, and then I simply didn't call them.
And, it's hard to believe, but about an hour after I did didn't do that, I felt much better.
RECENT TRIUMPHS
- Taking the illogical and using it to make some seriously ill logic,
- Sitting next to poorly Andy Warhol, and
- Date 2.
*** The girl I went out with is ginger, but she dyes her hair red. As I love ginger hair, I told her that every time she dyes a little leprechaun dies too. But spelt different.
***2 A few years ago I was dead against chain coffee shops, like more against them than Desperate Dan is against pies that contain anything other than cow:
However, there just don't seem to be any non-chain coffee shops any more, and to become teetotal I have had to replace all of my dirty, druggy urges with:
COFFEE!!!!
and I simply need to get hold of it when and where I can, before I hulk out and chain smoke a crate of vodka/wine cocktails.
I will drink in any other coffee shop than Moka/Nero/Starbuck/Cuntfroth whenever I have the option though. I'll even opt for coffee from Preston bus station if it's achievable. I mean, I've no interest in putting myself in front of the vast and cuntish shark that is global capitalism, but I'd rather not be one of those fish that clean the shit out from between its teeth.
Get right in between the gums sweetheart
Unless, as I've already explained, I need that shit straight away, and with little to no inconvenience.
Fight the power!
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