Friday, 1 January 2010

New Year's Day 2010.

To get the full impact of this one, you will need to download Nina Simone, Feeling Good and play it damn loud.

So Happy New Year (kiss kiss) all round and on we slog. It was a blue moon last night and I didn't get paralytic because I don't really know my hosts intimately enough to go into total free fall. And anyway, I am limbering up for the New Order, remember. We had a good time, I got to suck on a Cohiba and compare two ports, and whilst I didn't grow a beard on the spot I was grateful to be treated like an honorary boy. And, to top it all, we got a lift home which was a relief. Whilst the blue moon was interesting at 8pm going downhill, I suspect it might have lost it's thrall at 1am slogging up a steep hill through woods, quagmires and muddy muddy fields.

I woke early and smug. After all, by normal standards, last night was a quiet night in. I lay in bed and read McCarthy's Bar by the hilarious Pete McCarthy for an hour whilst Darling went off in a hungover huff to chuff on his roll-ups and drink coffee in the garden. But then he made a tactical error. He came in and apologised for being wantonly blind and brutish recently. Dear God, I cannot deal with that level of despair. No one ever surrenders in this warzone. I, in turn disolved into floods and together we hatched a strategy for surviving 2010. It was like a football match in No Man's Land. We made deals, agreed terms, spat on the palms of our hands and shook on it. We left no grievance unaired and touched on some dangerous ground but got through it. We drew the line at cutting open our thumbs and squashing them together though.

And no, this isn't a euphemism for an intimate fireworks party Rupert Garcia you perve. That is what happened.

And I'm feeling good de dum, de dum, de dum.

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