- Buses taking three hours daily
- Promises that we would have a beer festival and music
- Promises that we would be staying at Hyde Park
- Pay dates changing, until after we finish work
- Day 6, threat that we would be fired for having a few beers after work
Wednesday, August 1, 2012
Thursday, August 12, 2010
13/8
Well hell I've been fired. Didn't take too long. I got warnings. Mea Culpa!! Really! Really! Mea Culpa. Oh, fuck it anyhow. I might do what that guy did in Leaving Las Vegas, go somewhere to drink myself to death.
Hell drink started this, its rapturous rapacious hands have clawed me to the nadir of its detritus, I am among the gravel now, not held in anyone's esteem, not even my known - in essence I'm completely free, in all other ways I'm completely alone. My only friend is the rubble of the pavement that blows through my body like a vacant ghost. I no longer feel. All this over a fucking job!
Well I'm drunk as hell now. I can still type though! I can always still type, I got steady hands.
I got steady hands but a prying heart.
Well I thought I couldn't punctuate my descent any further, but the long road looms on and its taken a further drop downhill.
My boss had every right, but he was still a cunt. There was no dignity about the way it went down. I mean I listened politely to his reasons. All my excuses were I could still do the job in this state. He started coming out with some right tripe, saying how he thinks ill have a heartattack imminently, and therefore does not want to scare the customers, whom surely would be reeling in terror as I succumb to my death. A death which I yearn for with each passing day.
This is no life for a man.
Leave would be a grateful blessing. But I have a qualm with it. My father always drilled me to be anything but cowardly. He was a military man, he died active in the field. And of all the deplorable things I am, a coward is not one of them. I won't purposely be a coward and condemn myself to death, even though the drinking has fucked me over. But I never drank as a coward. Never! My biggest task is to show myself that I'm not a coward. There's only one thing to do there. Give up my vice. Give it up and never succumb to it again.
God's speed.
Hell drink started this, its rapturous rapacious hands have clawed me to the nadir of its detritus, I am among the gravel now, not held in anyone's esteem, not even my known - in essence I'm completely free, in all other ways I'm completely alone. My only friend is the rubble of the pavement that blows through my body like a vacant ghost. I no longer feel. All this over a fucking job!
Well I'm drunk as hell now. I can still type though! I can always still type, I got steady hands.
I got steady hands but a prying heart.
Well I thought I couldn't punctuate my descent any further, but the long road looms on and its taken a further drop downhill.
My boss had every right, but he was still a cunt. There was no dignity about the way it went down. I mean I listened politely to his reasons. All my excuses were I could still do the job in this state. He started coming out with some right tripe, saying how he thinks ill have a heartattack imminently, and therefore does not want to scare the customers, whom surely would be reeling in terror as I succumb to my death. A death which I yearn for with each passing day.
This is no life for a man.
Leave would be a grateful blessing. But I have a qualm with it. My father always drilled me to be anything but cowardly. He was a military man, he died active in the field. And of all the deplorable things I am, a coward is not one of them. I won't purposely be a coward and condemn myself to death, even though the drinking has fucked me over. But I never drank as a coward. Never! My biggest task is to show myself that I'm not a coward. There's only one thing to do there. Give up my vice. Give it up and never succumb to it again.
God's speed.
Friday, August 6, 2010
6/8
Sometimes it feels like the earth shat you out and there's no meaning to nothing and no rightness to it either. We're all a swarm of meaningless, dull, feckless beasts that plough on through the strains of life for no foreseeable reason. What light at the end of the tunnel. Life's shit and then you die.
Hell I wasn't always this negative and cynical, but I guess I have lived by the sensibility of that last line. I was never worried about excess. Infact I always had ingrained in me a perpetual fear of too little; if I ate too little I'd get skinny and die, it was always too little that threatened me. I was accustomed to excess. Both my parents did everything in excess; they'd go all out when hosting parties, they'd have mountains of food and fountains of drink, they really did put on a good party. My father used to race down country roads with his driving buddies at 4 in the morning. My mother died an alcoholic.
There was excess all around me when young, I guess that's why I was used to it.
Anyway, I shouldn't complain about my lot too much, most of my demise was self-inflicted.
My job is still active, its paying somewhat, at least. I've been sober for almost a week now, which is something.
All my friends, well, my few friends - the ones whose advice I could actually count on - they reckoned that my wife set off my drinking bouts and depression. I never bought it at the time, but looking back, there may have been right. I remember we had instances when I moved away - we were on a 'break' - and I was living with a mate, or my parents, I was always on the straight and narrow. And if I hadn't completely cut out drinking, I had certainly toned it down. Then we made up, had sex and by the next night I was drunk again. Well. Doesn't make logical sense, but then humans are illogical.
Anyway, I'm going to get through this tall four-pack then settle down to dream, and hopefully rebuild the shack my life has become.
Hell I wasn't always this negative and cynical, but I guess I have lived by the sensibility of that last line. I was never worried about excess. Infact I always had ingrained in me a perpetual fear of too little; if I ate too little I'd get skinny and die, it was always too little that threatened me. I was accustomed to excess. Both my parents did everything in excess; they'd go all out when hosting parties, they'd have mountains of food and fountains of drink, they really did put on a good party. My father used to race down country roads with his driving buddies at 4 in the morning. My mother died an alcoholic.
There was excess all around me when young, I guess that's why I was used to it.
Anyway, I shouldn't complain about my lot too much, most of my demise was self-inflicted.
My job is still active, its paying somewhat, at least. I've been sober for almost a week now, which is something.
All my friends, well, my few friends - the ones whose advice I could actually count on - they reckoned that my wife set off my drinking bouts and depression. I never bought it at the time, but looking back, there may have been right. I remember we had instances when I moved away - we were on a 'break' - and I was living with a mate, or my parents, I was always on the straight and narrow. And if I hadn't completely cut out drinking, I had certainly toned it down. Then we made up, had sex and by the next night I was drunk again. Well. Doesn't make logical sense, but then humans are illogical.
Anyway, I'm going to get through this tall four-pack then settle down to dream, and hopefully rebuild the shack my life has become.
Monday, July 26, 2010
26/7
I've been busy at work so haven't had a chance to blog for awhile. I use it for cathartic reasons anyhow. As I can't afford a psychiatrist, it has to do.
My boss was unhappy with me the other day, saying I've only had my uniform for a few weeks but it stinks of beer and fags. For some reason unknown to me I told him I'd been sleeping in it as well. He's got a point, I do stink. Well since, I've had a shave and at least got clean, washed and that, and that includes my clothes.
I remember when I used to wear fine suits with silk ties. My wife loved cravats. She always bought me them. They were her weakness. I could always seduce her with them on. She would see me wearing it, after work some day, in the boudoir, and would pounce. I merely complied, her forgetting the many atrocities I'd committed earlier in the week (or more often, day) and would twindle her fingers through my hair. Well I never loved an item more than a cravat. Apart from a beer.
As soon as it was over she seemed to go back to being the dreary bitch she mostly was. And it was always alcohol-related. I could taste the whiskey on your mouth. Well you weren't complaining when you were shoving your tongue down me neck!
These incidents become more and more rare, and as I felt much resentment to me wife, I didn't wear the cravats as much. The charm of them vanished for her too, though. She was mostly just an austere, joyless woman. Or at least that's how I pictured her.
Well I remember there was a time when she wasn't coming home much, because she was always away on 'courses' and 'meetings' and such. I was left in charge of Jenny, although she had had the foresight to get in a childminder, whom seemed to come and go when she pleased. I think her name was Jill, but I never was sure.
She wasn't there much in the evenings, and I was alone getting drunk with Jenny upstairs in bed. I left the house. Not very good fathering I know. I had on my nicest cravat, claret in colour. I thought I'd work the pubs to see if the cravat's powers of seduction was ubiquitous.
The Bull was a dingy place, but the soft lights gave it a sultry ambiance. It was like a parlour in Amsterdam. I thought, this is my best chance. I sort of circled the ladies like a vulture. To be honest, my head was so watery with spirits I could have been doing anything, and probably was. Well it was a quiet night, and some of the blokes didn't seem enamoured with my presence. I tried playing with my cravat infront of the ladies, in a desperate attempt to show myself off as a gentleman. And an ostentatious one at that.
Well the barman spat You gonna buy a drink? I asked a lady I had gravitated towards what she fancied drinking. Oh no you don't. She was here with her husband who was in the lav. I said he's not showing her due attention and preceded to buy her a whiskey and coke. The bar guy shifted his eyes, which were full of subtle humour, to some of the other blokes. He finished wiping a beer glass and got me my drinks. Well I started talking to this dame in my haze, about things which I forget now. She was smiling and reciprocating. Hell I even thought she started acting coquettish. Well, the picture of her perfect smiling face was shattered as a fist clattered my vision. I think I must have fallen. There was laughter. The guy was a menace. A big black giant, with raging testosterone in the eyes, standing in a boxers gait. That blow could have knocked me out. I stuttered. He asked me to leave. I said I will, but could I at least finish me drink? He asked me to leave. The barman asked me to leave. Somewhere inside of me incandescent fury blazed for a moment - I fuckingwell paid for that drink, I'm going to fuckingwell drink it! - well it unsettled them all a fair bit. Whilst they were rattled, and even the big man was taken aback abit, I grabbed me beer and took it round the otherside of the bar, sat alone, with me back to them, and drunk. Well I savored that beer, because with each gulp I got more confidence. Once finished, I took it back over to the bar, put it down, looked all around at the characters with madness in me eyes and left promptly. Well the bastard had got me quite good. Cut my top lip and me nostrils flared with dry blood. I got home, went back to the living room, drunk a fifth of whiskey and collapsed. The nanny found me the next morning. She was acting all concerned and exasperated, wanting to know what happened. Well I didn't say much in the way of anything and sauntered up to me room.
My boss was unhappy with me the other day, saying I've only had my uniform for a few weeks but it stinks of beer and fags. For some reason unknown to me I told him I'd been sleeping in it as well. He's got a point, I do stink. Well since, I've had a shave and at least got clean, washed and that, and that includes my clothes.
I remember when I used to wear fine suits with silk ties. My wife loved cravats. She always bought me them. They were her weakness. I could always seduce her with them on. She would see me wearing it, after work some day, in the boudoir, and would pounce. I merely complied, her forgetting the many atrocities I'd committed earlier in the week (or more often, day) and would twindle her fingers through my hair. Well I never loved an item more than a cravat. Apart from a beer.
As soon as it was over she seemed to go back to being the dreary bitch she mostly was. And it was always alcohol-related. I could taste the whiskey on your mouth. Well you weren't complaining when you were shoving your tongue down me neck!
These incidents become more and more rare, and as I felt much resentment to me wife, I didn't wear the cravats as much. The charm of them vanished for her too, though. She was mostly just an austere, joyless woman. Or at least that's how I pictured her.
Well I remember there was a time when she wasn't coming home much, because she was always away on 'courses' and 'meetings' and such. I was left in charge of Jenny, although she had had the foresight to get in a childminder, whom seemed to come and go when she pleased. I think her name was Jill, but I never was sure.
She wasn't there much in the evenings, and I was alone getting drunk with Jenny upstairs in bed. I left the house. Not very good fathering I know. I had on my nicest cravat, claret in colour. I thought I'd work the pubs to see if the cravat's powers of seduction was ubiquitous.
The Bull was a dingy place, but the soft lights gave it a sultry ambiance. It was like a parlour in Amsterdam. I thought, this is my best chance. I sort of circled the ladies like a vulture. To be honest, my head was so watery with spirits I could have been doing anything, and probably was. Well it was a quiet night, and some of the blokes didn't seem enamoured with my presence. I tried playing with my cravat infront of the ladies, in a desperate attempt to show myself off as a gentleman. And an ostentatious one at that.
Well the barman spat You gonna buy a drink? I asked a lady I had gravitated towards what she fancied drinking. Oh no you don't. She was here with her husband who was in the lav. I said he's not showing her due attention and preceded to buy her a whiskey and coke. The bar guy shifted his eyes, which were full of subtle humour, to some of the other blokes. He finished wiping a beer glass and got me my drinks. Well I started talking to this dame in my haze, about things which I forget now. She was smiling and reciprocating. Hell I even thought she started acting coquettish. Well, the picture of her perfect smiling face was shattered as a fist clattered my vision. I think I must have fallen. There was laughter. The guy was a menace. A big black giant, with raging testosterone in the eyes, standing in a boxers gait. That blow could have knocked me out. I stuttered. He asked me to leave. I said I will, but could I at least finish me drink? He asked me to leave. The barman asked me to leave. Somewhere inside of me incandescent fury blazed for a moment - I fuckingwell paid for that drink, I'm going to fuckingwell drink it! - well it unsettled them all a fair bit. Whilst they were rattled, and even the big man was taken aback abit, I grabbed me beer and took it round the otherside of the bar, sat alone, with me back to them, and drunk. Well I savored that beer, because with each gulp I got more confidence. Once finished, I took it back over to the bar, put it down, looked all around at the characters with madness in me eyes and left promptly. Well the bastard had got me quite good. Cut my top lip and me nostrils flared with dry blood. I got home, went back to the living room, drunk a fifth of whiskey and collapsed. The nanny found me the next morning. She was acting all concerned and exasperated, wanting to know what happened. Well I didn't say much in the way of anything and sauntered up to me room.
Sunday, July 18, 2010
18/7
Sometimes I feel like the intricacies of life overwhelm my senses. I get baffled by tedious work. This new work is tedious on a grand scale.
It isn't grand. It's not even in my forte of sales. When I say forte here it is in the most reductive way possible. I wasn't a natural born seller, I was just fleeced into it like millions before me and like millions after me will continue to do so. I didn't have instinct and whenever I thought a method worked there was always evidence that it didn't, often by stumbling upon different techniques by chance or a sudden brainwave, which then lead me to believe I should start using this technique, but then there would be a new problem to that technique and I would shake my head in a furry and spin in my seat all day long until left completely giddy and nauseous, yearning for that most requited love of all - a drink.
Anyway my new job is no glamorous affair. A simple, humble job. I can now be recognised as a modest man. I'm working as a petrol attendant. I started as a Forecourt attendant. This involved cleaning up spillages, moving cones, buckets and other such items about; opening the carwash, helping unpack deliveries and other general maintenance activities. It was alright, but I was still living frugally as I was only getting a couple of shifts per week. I say frugally, but the conditions I was living in was more akin to poverty.
I wasn't eating much, getting most of my daily calories from cans of boddington. Luckily, boddington does have a shitload of calories as its so creamy, like an alcoholic protein shake. Plus its cheaper than buying one of them ready-eat meals.
Well they've stepped up my position now. When someone makes an enquiry into my profession I can now answer with the eloquent title Petrol Station Clerk. Ha! Well I don't see women lining up for me in account of this. A title's just a title, nevermind what Shakespeare said about roses, and no matter how rich it sounds, the job underneath it is what people will base you on. Infact, the richer the title of the job, the more the company is trying to make up for the crap the job entails.
Anyway, I'm working alot more shifts now which is something. I'll keep you updated with the plethora of different characters I have met thus far.
The regulars are my favourite, mind. In the morning they're the laborers or the people needing their morning fags. By the evening the regulars are the drunks. There is a blind man who comes in every other day, with his guide dog, and buys the same thing everytime - a four pack of stella. I've become so used to it, as soon as he comes in I scramble over to the alcohol fridge and take it back to the counter, ready for him like. Once paid I put it in a carrier and he puts his arms out, outstretched, his hands grabbing at the bag as I carefully direct it into them. Its tragic but poignant. To be honest the crazies and the oddities are the best entertainment I get, as the rest of the job is largely boring. It also depends whom I'm working with. Some of the later ones hardly utter a word, like the strange indian fella I always forget the name of. Dan's an alright guy. Loves his pot. He's one of them guys whose cynical and lazy attitude to life means their job never does justice to their intelligence. And he's by no means an idiot, even if most of his references are to TV programmes.
I'll be getting back to my story of collapse again in not so long, so no fear.
There is one thing I must say about my reception from my coworkers. Apart from the prying women who work the morning shifts, none of the guys care about where I'm from or my story, or even what a guy my age is doing working as a petrol attendant. Its a pleasurable freedom not to have to explain myself or recount my tales of woe, which would no doubt serve to make them all feel crap anyway. Obviously that makes me wonder why I'm telling my story on this blog, but I guess its more for my interest than anyone elses.
My story is my own and I tell it for one person,
myself.
It isn't grand. It's not even in my forte of sales. When I say forte here it is in the most reductive way possible. I wasn't a natural born seller, I was just fleeced into it like millions before me and like millions after me will continue to do so. I didn't have instinct and whenever I thought a method worked there was always evidence that it didn't, often by stumbling upon different techniques by chance or a sudden brainwave, which then lead me to believe I should start using this technique, but then there would be a new problem to that technique and I would shake my head in a furry and spin in my seat all day long until left completely giddy and nauseous, yearning for that most requited love of all - a drink.
Anyway my new job is no glamorous affair. A simple, humble job. I can now be recognised as a modest man. I'm working as a petrol attendant. I started as a Forecourt attendant. This involved cleaning up spillages, moving cones, buckets and other such items about; opening the carwash, helping unpack deliveries and other general maintenance activities. It was alright, but I was still living frugally as I was only getting a couple of shifts per week. I say frugally, but the conditions I was living in was more akin to poverty.
I wasn't eating much, getting most of my daily calories from cans of boddington. Luckily, boddington does have a shitload of calories as its so creamy, like an alcoholic protein shake. Plus its cheaper than buying one of them ready-eat meals.
Well they've stepped up my position now. When someone makes an enquiry into my profession I can now answer with the eloquent title Petrol Station Clerk. Ha! Well I don't see women lining up for me in account of this. A title's just a title, nevermind what Shakespeare said about roses, and no matter how rich it sounds, the job underneath it is what people will base you on. Infact, the richer the title of the job, the more the company is trying to make up for the crap the job entails.
Anyway, I'm working alot more shifts now which is something. I'll keep you updated with the plethora of different characters I have met thus far.
The regulars are my favourite, mind. In the morning they're the laborers or the people needing their morning fags. By the evening the regulars are the drunks. There is a blind man who comes in every other day, with his guide dog, and buys the same thing everytime - a four pack of stella. I've become so used to it, as soon as he comes in I scramble over to the alcohol fridge and take it back to the counter, ready for him like. Once paid I put it in a carrier and he puts his arms out, outstretched, his hands grabbing at the bag as I carefully direct it into them. Its tragic but poignant. To be honest the crazies and the oddities are the best entertainment I get, as the rest of the job is largely boring. It also depends whom I'm working with. Some of the later ones hardly utter a word, like the strange indian fella I always forget the name of. Dan's an alright guy. Loves his pot. He's one of them guys whose cynical and lazy attitude to life means their job never does justice to their intelligence. And he's by no means an idiot, even if most of his references are to TV programmes.
I'll be getting back to my story of collapse again in not so long, so no fear.
There is one thing I must say about my reception from my coworkers. Apart from the prying women who work the morning shifts, none of the guys care about where I'm from or my story, or even what a guy my age is doing working as a petrol attendant. Its a pleasurable freedom not to have to explain myself or recount my tales of woe, which would no doubt serve to make them all feel crap anyway. Obviously that makes me wonder why I'm telling my story on this blog, but I guess its more for my interest than anyone elses.
My story is my own and I tell it for one person,
myself.
Monday, July 12, 2010
12/7
Well life goes on and all that. I got me a job but I'll come back to that.
Back to the time when I had the house in the suburbs, was a common commuter, had a daughter, had a wife, and a life. I've always been one to test limits and restrictions. Maybe that's what I was doing with my drinking. I never drunk so hard as from mid-2006. But I wasn't testing myself or my ability to sustain what was left of my health - nah health wasn't a worry - I was testing the fabrics of the bourgeoisie life. Sounds like an excuse to get drunk to an outsider, but when I was drinking I felt liberated and what's more acted liberated. When sober, I was always sucking up to my wife, buying her flowers to say sorry for such and such - I really didn't want to loose her, I loved her. I went to AA meetings for her, but sometimes I just went down the bar instead. I tried to spend time with my daughter by driving her around the countryside, but she always said 'can we go back now' - and then I'd come home, and if my wife was in she'd scream at me, saying I was going to abduct Jenny or I was drink driving and putting Jenny's life in danger. I felt like the whole thing weren't even worth trying for. Like that proverb about no good deed goes unpunished or whatnot. I got mad once after trying to take my daughter fishing. All I wanted was to spend a few hours in the sun, testing the waters and relaxing, hoping my little girl would talk for once. Well we went with Bob, my usual fishing companion, in his large 4by4. He's a character Bob, massive and full of vitality and speaks in roaring anecdotes and laughs as loud as a subwoofer. Well he started chucking whiskey down me from his liquor flask. He was drinking too. But he could handle alot. I liked him more when he drank too. I asked if my daughter wanted a drink. She took a gulp and spat it all out in the water. Bob went red and said he felt like he'd been slapped a good one. Well I persevered and said 'you gotta take it gently honey. Sip." Then Bob got all reverent towards whiskey, saying how its the finest thing for your health, and he was nurturing Jenny, telling her "go on, you'll love the stuff", saying he'd be impressed if a girl her age could keep it down. Well she did. And it was brilliant. That moment was sheer happiness. We all hugged and were hearty and full of fire, our hearts now yearning for a fish. I thought maybe Jenny's a natural at everything. And if she could catch a fish, well, she'd just about be the best daughter out there.
Well that whiskey kicked in, and the poor girl could hardly keep still. First she was laughing and kept plodding her head in the murky water. I said 'that's one way to ruin a pretty face'. Then she couldn't keep her hands from shaking, so I kept thinking she got something on the line. Bob had started singing Cash in his deep baritone, another thing we had in common, a love for Cash. But then poor Jenny started hurtling. Spewing crap into an already crappy canal, and getting her hair in it all. Well I dragged her aside, gave her some bread and she sort of curled up to me, like a cat. That must have been the most pleasant feeling, and the closest, in proximity like, we had come over the last 3 years. Obviously I felt bad for her and a fool, but in that moment the heavens sang to the tune of Ring of fire, and the blessed was my daughter, all curled up infantile and lovely. Well I knew it wouldn't last. The dragon would be waiting. The journey home was pleasant, Bob still singing and dappled sunlight treacling from gaps between trees and my daughter holding me tight, her little hands like cardboard cutouts. Well I brought her in after Bob had beeped and left and took her to her room. The mam was cooking in the kitchen and called out for Jenny. I said she wasn't feeling well and 'I'm taking her to her room'. She came up and saw Jenny in bed, looking a little sweaty and dirty, asking what happened and if she needed a bath. I said she needs sleep first, she can wash herself later. She felt her head and all. I left.
Well downstairs my women took me aside of the stew I was staring at and she looked raged and asked what had happened. 'Why she so dirty, did she fall in the water?" She knew I'd been drinking, and so her eyes thinned and she said, "I could smell alcohol on Jenny. I hope that's from you." Well I was mad and didn't care for this crap or apologies then. I shouted at her saying Jenny had a little. 'Only a little', saying you can't overprotect kids or "they grow up all scared of the world and afraid to stand out", pointing her out as a perfect example of this. Well she didn't like that. And she shouted back. She grabbed some stew, threw it against the wall, asked what I gave her. I said 'whiskey'. Well she went blue and started making a racket. All I said was I'm not going to get her anymore flowers. Then she said I'm a terrible father and a worse man." Well that did it. I slapped that women like I'd slap an enemy. She couldn't believe it. Went quiet from shock and disbelief. She stormed upstairs. I took out a beer and sat in front of the TV. I'd never hit a women before. I regret it now, but for some reason it felt right then. It felt good then. Well she took Jenny and threatened "I'm leaving you". They drove off into that perfect sunny day. I thought I'd be damned to do anything about it. But I was mad my daughter had gotten in between the argument. Lucky for her, she was still out cold when getting dragged to the car.
They cooled down after a night or so away from me - I forgot how long they stayed away as I really went for it for a few days - and I bought the usual aspidistras for my wife - she must have had enough to cultivate her own forest - and life went back to normal. I got sober for 3 weeks. A pledge which was thoroughly difficult, and to this day I'm not sure how I committed to that.
Back to the time when I had the house in the suburbs, was a common commuter, had a daughter, had a wife, and a life. I've always been one to test limits and restrictions. Maybe that's what I was doing with my drinking. I never drunk so hard as from mid-2006. But I wasn't testing myself or my ability to sustain what was left of my health - nah health wasn't a worry - I was testing the fabrics of the bourgeoisie life. Sounds like an excuse to get drunk to an outsider, but when I was drinking I felt liberated and what's more acted liberated. When sober, I was always sucking up to my wife, buying her flowers to say sorry for such and such - I really didn't want to loose her, I loved her. I went to AA meetings for her, but sometimes I just went down the bar instead. I tried to spend time with my daughter by driving her around the countryside, but she always said 'can we go back now' - and then I'd come home, and if my wife was in she'd scream at me, saying I was going to abduct Jenny or I was drink driving and putting Jenny's life in danger. I felt like the whole thing weren't even worth trying for. Like that proverb about no good deed goes unpunished or whatnot. I got mad once after trying to take my daughter fishing. All I wanted was to spend a few hours in the sun, testing the waters and relaxing, hoping my little girl would talk for once. Well we went with Bob, my usual fishing companion, in his large 4by4. He's a character Bob, massive and full of vitality and speaks in roaring anecdotes and laughs as loud as a subwoofer. Well he started chucking whiskey down me from his liquor flask. He was drinking too. But he could handle alot. I liked him more when he drank too. I asked if my daughter wanted a drink. She took a gulp and spat it all out in the water. Bob went red and said he felt like he'd been slapped a good one. Well I persevered and said 'you gotta take it gently honey. Sip." Then Bob got all reverent towards whiskey, saying how its the finest thing for your health, and he was nurturing Jenny, telling her "go on, you'll love the stuff", saying he'd be impressed if a girl her age could keep it down. Well she did. And it was brilliant. That moment was sheer happiness. We all hugged and were hearty and full of fire, our hearts now yearning for a fish. I thought maybe Jenny's a natural at everything. And if she could catch a fish, well, she'd just about be the best daughter out there.
Well that whiskey kicked in, and the poor girl could hardly keep still. First she was laughing and kept plodding her head in the murky water. I said 'that's one way to ruin a pretty face'. Then she couldn't keep her hands from shaking, so I kept thinking she got something on the line. Bob had started singing Cash in his deep baritone, another thing we had in common, a love for Cash. But then poor Jenny started hurtling. Spewing crap into an already crappy canal, and getting her hair in it all. Well I dragged her aside, gave her some bread and she sort of curled up to me, like a cat. That must have been the most pleasant feeling, and the closest, in proximity like, we had come over the last 3 years. Obviously I felt bad for her and a fool, but in that moment the heavens sang to the tune of Ring of fire, and the blessed was my daughter, all curled up infantile and lovely. Well I knew it wouldn't last. The dragon would be waiting. The journey home was pleasant, Bob still singing and dappled sunlight treacling from gaps between trees and my daughter holding me tight, her little hands like cardboard cutouts. Well I brought her in after Bob had beeped and left and took her to her room. The mam was cooking in the kitchen and called out for Jenny. I said she wasn't feeling well and 'I'm taking her to her room'. She came up and saw Jenny in bed, looking a little sweaty and dirty, asking what happened and if she needed a bath. I said she needs sleep first, she can wash herself later. She felt her head and all. I left.
Well downstairs my women took me aside of the stew I was staring at and she looked raged and asked what had happened. 'Why she so dirty, did she fall in the water?" She knew I'd been drinking, and so her eyes thinned and she said, "I could smell alcohol on Jenny. I hope that's from you." Well I was mad and didn't care for this crap or apologies then. I shouted at her saying Jenny had a little. 'Only a little', saying you can't overprotect kids or "they grow up all scared of the world and afraid to stand out", pointing her out as a perfect example of this. Well she didn't like that. And she shouted back. She grabbed some stew, threw it against the wall, asked what I gave her. I said 'whiskey'. Well she went blue and started making a racket. All I said was I'm not going to get her anymore flowers. Then she said I'm a terrible father and a worse man." Well that did it. I slapped that women like I'd slap an enemy. She couldn't believe it. Went quiet from shock and disbelief. She stormed upstairs. I took out a beer and sat in front of the TV. I'd never hit a women before. I regret it now, but for some reason it felt right then. It felt good then. Well she took Jenny and threatened "I'm leaving you". They drove off into that perfect sunny day. I thought I'd be damned to do anything about it. But I was mad my daughter had gotten in between the argument. Lucky for her, she was still out cold when getting dragged to the car.
They cooled down after a night or so away from me - I forgot how long they stayed away as I really went for it for a few days - and I bought the usual aspidistras for my wife - she must have had enough to cultivate her own forest - and life went back to normal. I got sober for 3 weeks. A pledge which was thoroughly difficult, and to this day I'm not sure how I committed to that.
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
7.7.10
Foreboding date for anyone living in the Uk since 2005. The country still fucking bonkers. Still got the cumbrian killings in the back of my mind and then this arsehole up in Newcatsle. What the hell is going on? I'm going to drown myself in beer. Its the only thing worth doing considering the present situation. I'll come back to my story another time, but remember this: what I miss the most is being able to say "get me a beer", I can't even do that anymore. I'm gonna go get a beer.
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