I pick my way through to the lounge, shuffling painfully, feeling achey and lousy. The lounge is a small battlefield of empty bottles, overflowing ashtrays, dirty sushi plates, an empty ice cream conatiner that it looks like someone licked clean, a bottle of Olmeca Black two thirds empty and a whole mess of wrapping paper cut offs, prestic, scissors and what looks like glue lying on the floor.
The wall is COVERED in gold wrapping-paper stars, an entire constellation, complete with a rad UFO and not-so-rad round alien guy that I think Jenni-fuh made. Mission control, I think we have landed on Mars.
Yesterday was so excessive it was a notch below a full bachanalia. We drank another bottle of Vodka flat, we drank about two six packs of beer, we drank my favourite whiskey, Red Breast (you can’t buy it here, Pooperoo brought it back from duty free in Heathrow. It is the best whiskey I’ve ever tasted) we ate about five plates full of sushi and at least two helpings each of crab salad and a whole tub of ice cream.
Short of the three of us ending it in bed, it was about as hedonistic as you can get. We indulged, we over-indulged and then we over-indulged some more.
Various other characters made cameo appearances, including Graumpot, his lady and even The Glaze.
His reaction was he arrived was the best. He walked into our flat and asked me what the hell was going on. I said we were all just chilling out, making stars and stuff. He asked me if I was starting some kind of weird cult, I said “Sure, why not?”
We ended it all with Superbad, which I’d seen twice before and passed out about 20 minutes into. Last thing I remember was lying there on the couch, stuffed completely, holding J-Rab, warm and drunk.
That’s what weekends were made for.
Now today I think we’re all gonna take it as easy as possible, get right and rested for tomorrow. At some stage we’re gonna have to straighten out the flat.
For now though, I’m going the hell back to sleep, my duty for the day is done