With bugger all else to do but sit 'humping' (as my Dad says) the computer all day planning my next big cluster-fuck, I have been partying like it's going out of fashion these last few weeks. I think this is a very excellent idea and will no doubt give me the vitamins I need to get my knee on the fast track to recovery.
Combine my lack of anything to get up for on a Monday morning with my brother's 'must-cram-as-much-debauchery-into-the-next-9-months-before-sprog-arrives' mission and you have a very worrying combination.
I found myself still awake at 7am on Saturday morning after an impromptu paint-the-town-red sesh which involved a random inside beach party in some den of iniquity I don't care to mention, several Caipirinhas, and large quantities of an un-named substance which made me stay awake a lot. Dancing with a crutch is interesting. Particularly as drunken revelers tend to think it's a hilarious idea to try and steal it. Not realising that it doubles as a weapon. As Big Bro 2.1 and I were stumbling up the road to the taxi rank some obnoxious crapweasle started over towards me chortling at my leg brace with clear intent to try and swipe the crutch. 'I wouldn't advise doing that' I said, 'Yes, you are right. This is a crutch but it is also a fuck off great big metal pole and I will have no hesitation in beating you repeatedly around the head with it if you try and take the piss.'
Every taxi driver I've come into contact with in the last 3 weeks asks the same question. 'Oh what happened to your leg.' And I'm getting really rather bored of explaining. I might just have the whole story tattooed to my forehead so if anyone else needs the 411 I can just say 'Yes Yes, my leg is fucked. I refer you to my forehead for full details. Now drive motherfucker.'
It never ceases to amaze me how much Brighton taxi drivers find to complain about. You'd think having driven around the same city for 5 years they'd be used to 15 year-old slags with their arses hanging out of their knickers flinging themselves across the road after the lights have changed, or lorry drivers stopping in irritating places at irritating times of day but apparently not. Brighton is a weird town full of weird people expressing themselves in weird ways. If you're not big into individualism I wouldn't recommend working a job where you meet a new member of our colourful and overtly homosexual community on average every 15 minutes.
'Oh look at that wanker over there' said this one particular taxi dude the other night on the way into town, indicating a rather eccentric looking man in a peak cap crossing the road like someone from the ministry of silly walks: 'They come down here with their poofy fucking clothes and their funny walks! Tch....!'
'Yeah,' said I 'Yeah I know what you mean' ....thinking, 'you mean that poor bastard over their with two prosthetic legs? Yeah what a fucking gall.'
Anyhoodle. Going back to my next big clusterfuck. I'm thinking a jaunt down Ibiza way my stem the boredom til the next ski season. Belle has been having beachside dreams, people. Who knows, I could be writing to you from The Blue Marlin this time in 4 months. Think of all the trouble I could get myself into. All the other body parts I could break! I'll keep you informed.