A tower of shrapnel in front of me shows that I’m 25 hard notes down, without the kindness of Gareth I’d be at least 30. The crab sticks, onion and garlic dip, and spanking new shirt indicate tonight was part of an elaborate losing streak. Not necessarily meant for me but no matter what I do it seems like some nights are just destined to fail.
As these seafood sticks crumble in my hands I wonder what the point in tonight was; getting with the girl who has a long-term boyfriend, good one. Wanting to kill my - drug-induced - manager in the priory again, better one. Still being drunk enough to not be hung over tomorrow, even better one. It seems like every (work) night out I’ve ever been on, someone somewhere is holding a replica voodoo doll. Reluctant to let me go they let the doll have it, and I’m always the one on the receiving end. Mope. Mope Mope.
Alas, I’m having some old skool CCG with my good friend tomorrow night. Watching the Scotland - Bulgaria match will undoubtedly be the highlight of my day and whilst I drown in the bottom of a pint glass, undoubtedly in exodus, I’ll be thinking about the dozens of people who got the balance right. Bastards.
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