sTAND UP

Our bold hero awakes, with a stinking fucking hangover, with his every pulse trying to explode the very synapsis of his brain using a cruel and unusual punishment consisting of what he imagines, is a pin of fucking melted lead…

Even thinking of how a pin of molten lead can exist, of course, gives him more pain…

His heart is thudding, with the force and regularity of an old steam hammer from the movies, thus, poke poke goes the pin, with uncanny accuracy, delving into the most delicate parts.

How the fuck does that pin, get such direction ? Pin point accuracy, oh yeah, thats funny cunt!

So even the inner voices this morning are in on the act, they are going to milk this episode, for all its worth…

“Ok, Fuck, this he says to himself, inside that ever crowded mindscape, cluster-fuck that he calls his mind!

“Right, you fucker, it’s time to get up, and see what can be salvaged from this day of your life… Shit to do and all that….!”

He now opens one eye… Two eyes!!! Now thats just fucking reckless, that ever joyful and extreme pain can just wait for now.

Now calm down, get that heart under control, and see if we can do something about that bloody jack hammer powered molten pin, that seems intent to enjoy its moment of maximum masochism.

Ok roll over….

“Awe, that’s just gross!” As he finds that the pillow is intent of following him in every delicate moment, as it is indeed glued to his skull, by a copious amount of sticky vomit, the smell of which is now invading his nostrils, and giving him a “Huey” moment, just a nanosecond, as in this tiny space of time, he remembers that he has nothing left… not even an ounce of foul smelling dark bile, that stuff that seems to be produced from somewhere deep below, perhaps even the very soles of the feet??

Anyway back to the here and present, back to the reality of getting unglued from the “Rank” pillow, and just leaving it, curled up and rotten, and judging!!

“Fuck you, and the horse you rode into town on, you fucking big marshmallow impersonator! Fuck you!!”

Oops, he realises he said that out loud. Get a fucken grip, you muppet! Now let’s get on our feet, and see if we can get to the bathroom….

Rule of 30 seems like a good idea, but that is 30 more blows to the metaphysical solar plexus of his whisky sodden brain, by that bloody jack hammer… oh, fuck it, lets go…

Waiting 30 seconds for the blood to flow to your legs, before you get up, is good advice to stop a stroke, etc, but that seems of little consequence compared to the way past terminal damage that was being done to his head, from the inside…

Ok, hands out, lean on the cold clammy wall! Oh yeah baby!!

He plants his forehead on the said clammy white painted cement… and stays there in a kneeling praying position with that cold seeping into his forehead… aahhh yes… there is a god…

Ok, while the cooling effects on the blood pulling around his brain are at the maximum, let’s make the push, to get to the toilet…

A rapid rise and lurch and fumble, and bounce around the bedroom’s confined space. Ok, lets grab the dressing gown, off the back of the door as we go… tie those long fucking tye’s, or whatever the fuck they are called and on we go…

Out the door, down the corridor and into the large freezing cold victorian bathroom, with its impossibly high ceilings, it’s shitty single pane of glass windows the arsehole planners won’t let you double glaze, and there it is… the puke splattered telephone to God!

The mighty “Huey” vessel, the porcelain receptacle of all that’s great and good earlier the evening before, which has been and again is now to be jettisoned by whatever orifice decides it’s at the head of the pecking order at that particular moment…

He sits down gently, remembering tales of old, when a large Southern Gentleman he used to work with managed to shatter an old porcelain shitter, and had to have surgery to rebuild his arshole… oh! happy days, oh! how they laughed!! NOT!

Right, oooh that’s the spot, ooohhh bladder relieved, and of course now he couldn’t help directing “the stream of yellow sulphurous fizzing piss” at the flaky pieces of sick, hardened overnight on the side of the bowl…

This accomplished “the square root of fuck all”, of course, but he felt useful at that moment, it was the nearest to “winning”, that he was probably going to feel all day, Jeez, what a life he had!

Ok, bladder dump completed… now for the “2nd Stage Separation” as NASA called it… not quite rocket science at its finest, but oh what a great re-entry could be accomplished, your definitely didn’t want a splash down, at that moment, not in the puke encrusted jewel of a toilet his ass was suspended over… that would be just about “par for the course”. But getting rid of that whisky would be a good idea…

“Oooh that was better, but, for fuck sake, thats a biological weapon thats been released… Jeez, that’s just not human…”

Outside, there is a shout from his flatmate…

“For Fucks sake, man… you need to see a fucking doctor, man… thats just not right…In fact fuck it, you should see a VET!!

Ha, de fuckin Ha, arsehole… and how are you feeling this lovely morning?

I am fine, just away to put on some bacon and eggs, and maybe a kipper, as somehow you managed to bring a box of the fucking things home with you last night!!!!

“Box Of Kippers??… FFS !

What on earth?

A neat wooden pine I would think, carefully made artisan if you like,box of “Kippers” that much loved North East of Scotland delicacy was indeed lying on the kitchen table, in pride of place, such as a “War Trophy “ would be positioned, to show and tell all what our great hero had been up to last night…