Love Letter

Dear Life,
               You have been good to me.  When I was born you were careful not to send any traumatising hardships my way, anything that would have had ongoing psychological repurcussions in later life and I'm really grateful for that.  You helped my parents give me a happy childhood and although, like any privellaged child would have done, I complained every now and then, I look back on it fondly.  I played outdoors as much as I believe a child should, I had good friends who showed me how to grow up and interact with people, but who didn't tiptoe around my feelings when they felt the need to criticise me.  I stayed indoors and read, or drew pictures or wrote stories which I'm thankful for because those early hobbies have given me the creative inclinations I now so cherish.
As I grew older you kept sending good people my way, people who were there for me when I sometimes selfishly wasn't always there for them (but was when I felt up to the challenge).  In my teenage years I felt you had somewhat given up on me and offloaded a ton of negative character traits and emotions on me that, at times, made life quite hard, but I now appreciate that you do that to most people and its for a greater good, if you were to resist testing people at an impressionable age then so few would have the sociological tools necessary to appreciate you when true hardships arrive.  I look back on those years with mixed emotions but don't mistake that for lack of ample fondness.  You showed me what love was just around the time when I thought I would never find out, then as I grew older you showed me that having that love removed is not the end of the world.
You've always kept the good people close to me and the bad people distant.  I pride myself on my judge of character but I know that the cosmos works in mysterious ways and if you wanted evil to interfere in my life then you could have made that happen but you chose not to, even though you have to so many others.
I know that nothing in my life is truly bad, however much I may think it is.  You let me experiment with drugs and you seem to have guided me, somehow, into near alcoholism.  I don't know why you finally chose to do that to me after being so good to me for so many years prior, but you must have your reasons.  The whimsical among us tend to think that all things happen for a reason and, although I'm largely apprehensive to see things their way, I suppose they could be on to something there.
But your care sometimes wanes, if I were to be honest with you.  It seems, retroactively, that you have been teasing me with loving care and the supposedly perpetual offer of good things.  To be frank you're being a bit of a prick right now.  Why have I, all of a sudden, been given this disposition to overthink things that shouldn't bother me?  Why am I suddenly so wary of and disappointed in the human race when you have never given me reason to be in the past?  I haven't learnt any of this negativity from the environment so it must have been YOU that started doing this to me.  How FUCKING dare you??  Only when I feel good enough about myself to try and see the brighter side I only then self-punish for the extreme hubris I associate with myself for inwardly implying that I'm better than them, those so-called good people that you've surrounded me with.  I have lost the ability to appreciate the NOW, I edit out all the things I should be proud and happy about and distort my decent life into a CURSE.  WHY have you done this to me?  You SADISTIC CUNT.  Where do you seem to get off delighting in a man agitatedly destroying everything around him because you've somehow twisted his otherwise rational mind into thinking everything needs to be destroyed?  I am increasingly surrounded by sordid examples of humanity's callousness and degeneration and YOU'VE shown me this.  And YOU'VE given me this anger and tendency to jeapordise my relationships with the good people around me.  YOU showed my friend being layed into by a group of people he didn't even know, FOR TRYING TO FUCKING APOLOGISE.  YOU set a gang of pissed-up cunts on me in the dark to smash my skull in and have to have serious surgery when you were so busy before allowing me to convince myself that I'm a decent person who doesn't deserve this.  Fuck, you've even given me weakness of character enough to do THIS.  Were you ever planning on conceding your sick efforts and showing me that you're not so bad?  When exactly?  I knew that life was hard before you made me this way.  You've let arseholes and idiots prosper all around me and if that wasn't enough you've even refrained from letting me rise above such triviality.  SHOULD I care about people chasing shallow status symbols and catching them, letting them think they're socially above me?  I shouldn't.  I KNOW people that don't and while I respect them, I AM NOT ONE OF THEM.  At what point did you give up on me?  What the FUCK have I done to you?  I doubt you'll ever let me know.
I was grateful for the first half of my life thus far.  'Was' being the operative word.  WAS.  You've clearly given up on me and I must have deserved it, but I can't work out how or why.  So I want to give up on you.  I'm done with the scum of humanity being too inept and poison-headed to accept apologies that come from my ACTUAL heart, so why should I expect any better from you?
Fuck you.  I hate you.

All the best
Joe xx

Terrible, Terrible Nightmares

Last night I had a nightmare based on a film I not only haven't seen, but don't recall even seeing a trailer for (although my girlfriend insists I have, for all intents and purposes I have not because I remember nothing about it), Chernobyl Diaries, writer Oren Peli's follow up to Paranormal Activity (He didn't play much of a part in the mediocre sequels).
Considering that watching Paranormal Activity at the cinema was one of the most terrifying experiences of my adult life (be quiet naysayers, its one of the most splendidly crafted ghost stories of the last two decades and a milestone for the genre), it is perfectly reasonable that I should have a bad dream about its successor with only the knowledge of its sharing a writer to go on.  As previously implied, the last two instalments had little to no lasting effects on my psyche.  Effective as they occasionally were, they seemed to lack that crucial horror element, of the chills being so universally accessible, getting the film under your skin so it lingers at the front of your mind for several nights, and at the back of your mind for several months.  Only last year's The Woman In Black has since achieved that effect on me.
The purpose of this post is becoming blurred as I have digressed into horror film critique which was not my intention (I can't resist).  This is about nightmares, and what causes me to have nightmares is not as straightforward as it should be.  Despite my previous musing on the link between Chernobyl Diaries and Paranormal Activity, I do not believe that to be the cause for my unsettling dream.  My subconscious mind, fragile as it seems to be, allows all aspects of terror to curdle and cause bad dreams.  Regardless of how non-terrifying I may find something in my waking state, if its unfulfilled intention is to scare then rest assured the effects are merely delayed until bed time.  You may recall my unfavourable review of The Devil Inside, a film that was simultaneously a poor Paranormal Activity and a terrible Exorcist.  However, come night time I still suffered from nightmares related to this film (Specifically focusing on the character of the possessed mother, the only aspect of The Devil Inside that even approached spooky).  This has since happened on numerous occasions and I have drawn the conclusion that these nightmares are caused by my mind acknowledging the potential of all horror stories that miss the mark.  A film like The Devil Inside may be poor and have no desired effect on my horror-hardened and cynical nerves, but upon watching it my subconscious begins to consider what the film was trying to achieve, and throughout the rest of the evening goes to work on a more effective version of events, splicing and editing out the weakpoints and replacing them with things that are unique to my idea of what is terrifying.  By the time I fall asleep the sadistic bastard that is my mind will then unleash this personalised story and succeed where the original itself fails.  Oddly enough, this is something of a retroactive success for the filmmakers, although unfortunately probably quite exclusive to this moviegoer.  In short, every horror film I ever watch will give me nightmares because my mind insists on showing me what it could have been.
This brings me back to Chernobyl Diaries.  At the time of writing I have deliberately refrained from researching the film because I want to focus on my mind being worked merely by knowledge of its existence, its screenwriter and the poster (which I have seen).  In the same way that The Devil Inside gave me nightmares because demonic possession is a creepy subject even if the filmmakers failed to utilise that leg-up, I know that the Chernobyl disaster was a horrific event, and the fact that it is now the subject of a horror film directed by the creator of one of the most effective modern ghost stories in cinema allows me to work out the rest.  The personalisation of the horror element has already hit home; ghosts, bodily disfigurement, nuclear fallout and the inevitable isolation associated with a place like Chernobyl are all things that have unsettled me since childhood (I used to lie awake at night, aged eight, worrying about nuclear war), so I don't need to glean anything else, the sufficient elements are there to disturb my sleep, and so they did.
The dream passed as follows;
I'm in an unsanitary kind of room, about to watch Chernobyl Diaries on a really beat-up old TV (see the dream begins meta-textual, which I'm a bit proud of).  Despite the poor quality of the TV, I'm still largely unsettled by the film.  Human-shaped things with mouldy grey skin and no faces are chasing people around a fenced-off wasteland.
I'm no longer watching the film, I'm now part of it.  A dozen-or-so rows of wooden chairs are arranged in the large living room of a run-down shack, in the manner of a school assembly.  I'm sitting at the back and there are only four or five other people in the entire room.  The room is dark and a man stands at the front, masked by twilight, giving us an inaudible briefing on coming events.  Then it gets gradually darker until pitch black.  What's interesting is the lighting, as it is broad daylight outside but the light lingers no further than the window itself.  The room is completely shrouded, and I remark on how good a job the lighting team has done (It seems that despite now being part of the story I'm still acknowledging that I'm in a film).
Things that are really scaring me thus far are the sparsity of the room; anything not fulfilling its purpose, in this case an empty room that should be full, is unsettling, the unwelcoming aesthetic of the building, and the sunlight failing to light a dark space.  The hidden face of the man (Anyone with supposed authority not revealing themselves is another disturbing notion), the lack of clarity in the instructions I'm getting and the fact that I'm still conscious of being a character in a horror film are all contributing factors.
Then I'm made to feel my way through the complete darkness (a terrifying ordeal in day-to-day life, let alone in a horror story) until I find a door, I force the door open and enter a room, closing the door behind me.  The room is empty and I can't figure out why I even have to be there, but the only way out is back throught the darkened assembly room, which is of no comfort to me.  Then the door handle starts shaking furiously, the door itself too.  I don't recall locking it but thank god I did, because something terrible on the other side of that dreaded door wants to get in and hurt me.  The door continues to struggle against the lock, banging and banging and then my alarm ends the dream and brings me back to reality.
Bad dreams have never been much of a problem to me (shy of the ones where family members die), despite how often I have them.  To be sickeningly optimistic about something usually quite traumatising, you awake from a bad dream into a comparatively better existence, unless of course the dream is simply a foreshadowing of something bad that is actually going to happen; though quite mundane an example, I have nightmares about counting stock at work, only to have to actually live out that bad dream when I wake up.  That is no comfort.  Good dreams, once finished, throw you unwillingly back into your inferior life.  You're not a millionaire, your book hasn't been published and your beloved childhood dog is still dead.  What is really good about that?  Aren't the real nightmares the ones that tease you with unattainable highs and then vomit you back into living hell?  To me, what we all generally consider to be a 'nightmare' is usually little more than a free horror movie starring yourself.  If you can't handle horror movies then I'm fully ready to accept that this justification is all bollocks to you (although it isn't my fault that you're an alien).
A cashier in NatWest once asked me if I thought dreams were insights into a parallel life (I just wanted to deposit some money, honest).  I humoured him at the time, of course, but I began to wonder on that.  From a non-literal stance then, yes.  When you dream you access a constructed fantasy world that is only bound by the limits of your own mind.  Dreams are a parallel universe wherein the rigid constructs of reality are absent, and you wield limitless planet-shaping power.  By and large only your subconscious can access that power (unless you are experiencing a lucid dream, alas I never have), but it is superior to waking life nonetheless.  If you believe dreams are shaped by the experiences of the preceding day, then that is something of a parallel universe.  You watch a horror film in one universe, and in the other universe it is not a horror film, but your actual life.  Your dog dies in one universe, and in the other the dog is still alive and the knock-on effects of that variable has rendered the surrounding atmosphere almost unrecognisable to that of the universe in which the dog is dead.  Providing you don't take 'parallel universe' to literally mean 'another existing universe' as opposed to 'a universe dreamt up by your sleeping mind' (that's a whole other debate), then the cashier was very much on to something there. 
I'll be sorely disappointed if Chernobyl Diaries is shit.

The Nice Man

I met a really nice man out in Haworth a while ago. My doctor said I
should take more walks in the open air to help me recover in good speed
and, always having lived close to the Yorkshire moor that purportedly
inspired Emily Bronte’s Wuthering Heights, one of my favourite novels,
I felt it high time I should make the modest pilgrimage to Top Withens,
the barren farmhouse that occupies the moor.

Myself and Sylvester, who was my Alsatian, left the dreary cityscape
of Bradford and ventured to rural Haworth village, a most refreshing
change for the senses. From there we walked the country path out of
the village and onto the moor. I can not faithfully describe to you
the mixture of excitement and lament I felt, knowing I was leaving town
life behind for an afternoon, only to be forced back into this mundane
existence by the end of the evening, grappled into place by the talons
of daily existence. I’ve always, from a safe distance, admired those
that shed themselves of all their dependencies upon the city and lived
out the remainder of their lives in a tent in the countryside, but I
could never be carefree enough to join their ranks.

After our pleasant hike, Sylvester and I came upon the house, where we
sat for more than an hour. Not being hungry I allowed Sylvester to eat
the sandwich I made for myself, deciding no more than a can of beer
will satiate me. Top Withens was nice enough, derelict in the manner
that can only be aesthetically beautiful away from urban society, and I
can not deny that I experienced the occasional whimsical rush of
fictional history around the place, picturing the ghosts of Heathcliff
and Cathy, tearfully gallivanting about the grounds, living out their
forlorn love story against the backdrop of the wild moor. However, my
mind was constantly irritated by the likelihood that I was just a
tourist, at a tourist attraction among other tourists equipped with
cameras and folded maps. I was only feeling these things because the
Haworth tourist board wanted me to, I was only here because a guide
book and a website said I should be.

As such, on our journey back I took Sylvester off the tourist-wearied
path into the village and decided to explore the less chartered areas.
What, I asked myself, could be the worst thing to happen? If I get
lost I still have several days of time off left anyway, and if I get
bored I shall simply put it down as another venture with nothing gained.
Predictably enough, there was little to see. I’ve always been more
fascinated by the places tourist attractions don’t let you see; the
locked doors in old churches, the cordoned-off corridors in museums,
what are they keeping from us? In reality, I suppose, it would seem
that tourist offices keep these places from us because they are dull
and they would waste our time. That certainly seemed to be the case of
Haworth moor.

Several hours passed and I began to feel the strain in my shoes, so I
turned in the direction of the village. On my way back I came across a
man, sat upon a stone far from anything resembling a civilisation.
I walked to him and asked if I was heading in the correct direction of
Haworth. He did not immediately answer.

‘Most usually keep their distance from me’ he said, ‘it can be
intimidating to happen upon a man acting strangely in the middle of
nowhere.’
‘In what manner is your act strange?’ asked I.
‘I sit on this stone’ he replied, ‘and I do not move.’
This confounded me. ‘You might be tired’ I said, ‘or in
contemplation. Lord knows both of these are true to me at the moment.’
‘Ah’ he said. ‘I have sat on this stone for a long time.’
It was at this moment I felt Sylvester’s leash strain tightly in my
hand. My dog was snarling relentlessly at the sitting man, and were it
not for my restraint of him, would likely have him pinned to the ground.
‘Sylvester!’ I cried. ‘Behave yourself.’
The man waved politely and dismissively. ‘It is quite alright’ he
said, ‘the dog is only acting as expected. It is your behaviour that
confuses me more.’
I didn’t quite know how to reply to this. The man had only known of
my existence for a number of minutes. Surely he shouldn’t yet be
expecting a particular type of behaviour from a stranger?
He smiled and motioned for me to approach him closer. I obliged.
‘So why are you sitting on this stone?’ I asked.
The stranger did not reply. Instead he reached out and took hold of
my wrist. At this I immediately felt enraged. I could not believe he,
a stranger to me, would act so boldly. My head lightened and I
suddenly found it difficult to focus, rage clouded every sense I
possessed and I could no longer perceive time or atmosphere. But my
anger had no direction, I was aware enough to realise it was not he who
I was disgusted with, nor was it myself for damning him. I could not
work out why I was so full of wrath. With all the strength I could
muster I swung my leg around and met Sylvester with an almighty kick to
the ribs. The poor dog yelped in protest and staggered backwards.
At this the man let go of me. I stepped back, the rage was gone.
Sylvester looked at me with hurt abandon in his eyes and I felt
disgusted with myself for the violent treatment of my best friend. I
immediately dropped to my knees and comforted him.
‘What on Earth happened?’ I asked. The man smiled. His words and
actions seemed to be infused with an infectious politeness that made
him impossible to dislike.

‘The next thing I tell you may make you think me a mad man’ he warned.
However, upon saying this his friendly grin was wiped from his face by
an expression of deadly foreboding that, I am not ashamed to admit,
intimidated me somewhat.
‘I am the source for all the world’s evil.’
What could I then do? I stood alone against this man, save for an
angry dog, and he had just told me one of the most fantastical ravings
I had heard in a very long time. I could not then depart, or refute
him, because he would be hurt and I did not wish for that.
‘Of course you don’t believe me’ he continued, ‘its quite alright, why
should you?’ This made me think that, if nothing else, at least his
claim was genuine in his own mind. Why would a trickster resign their
efforts to convince so early?
I smiled as politely as possible, recalling what he had made me do to
Sylvester with just one touch of his hand.

‘I have not long walked free from a place where men make claims like
yours every day’ I told him. ‘But you have just shown me something
that makes me think I should believe you. Explain more, please.’
My friend seemed pleased at my open mindedness and granted my wish.
‘I radiate a strange, hypnotic force that effects nature in the minds
of men’ he explained. ‘Some are more susceptible to its powers than
others, but all are, at the very least, casually affected. Although
close proximity to me will heighten the influence, my power is stubborn
enough that it lingers around the globe. Now please do not part ways
with your acceptance of me when I tell you that I am quite possibly
close to seven-thousand years old. In the dark ages I lived in the
cities, and the degeneration and despair that filled the streets in
those days was evidence enough of this. At first I was blissfully
unaware of the unshakeable power I possess, but occurrences with
friends and family, which led to deliberate experiments, confirmed my
fears. I make people behave badly. Furthermore I learnt that this
power was keeping me alive, for I eventually became what I then
considered to be an old man, yet showed no physical sign of it. I have
no conscious decision in what I am capable of, and it has stung my
heart for centuries to know that all the despots, murderers and
remorseless criminals throughout history are likely influenced by me.
‘I moved onto this moor eventually, deciding that sacrificing human
civilisation would be the best course of action for the world. The
power is not cut off out here, but it is at least limited. I have of
course considered moving to a more remote land, but such places tend to
be too hot or cold and would likely be too much for me. So here I have
sat, upon this stone for a very long time indeed.’

I decided that I believed this man. What he made me do to Sylvester
is something no illusionist or hypnotist could ever bring me to do, for
I love my dog and would never strike him undeservedly.
The next question escaped my lips before I had time to consider
whether I should really be asking it. ‘Are you the Devil?’
‘I don’t think so’ answered the man in a speed that suggested he had
considered this himself for many hours. ‘I think the Devil, if he
exists, delights in the despair he causes, and I do not.’
I thought of other selfless men who have been the catalyst for war and
despair against their will. Then I decided that I had just met the
most selfless man on Earth.
‘In answer to your original question,’ he said, ‘yes, you are going in
the correct direction.’
I thanked the man and bade him farewell as I took Sylvester back home.

That night I could not sleep, I thought heavily upon the events of the
day, and I decided I would return. The very next day I came to see the
man on the stone, and I brought him some food and drink and books to
read. That day he was surprised, and I dare say a little pleased, to
see me again. I brought him Wuthering Heights and told him that he sat
at the very location where it was set. This interested him and he
promised me he would read the book.

I returned on several occasions, and the man grew to expect and look
forward to my visits. During one occasion we spoke of The Bible and so
I purchased a copy from the village shop and brought it too him. He
later joked that the earlier parts seem to be his biography, but he
enjoyed the New Testament very much. I reassured him that there are
people good enough to overcome his power and persist to act in their nature.

One day my friend seemed a lot more sullen than usual. I asked him
what the matter was. ‘Why is my evil not affecting you?’ He asked in
reply. ‘You have had continual exposure to me yet you remain kind.’
‘I think the good that some people inspire can outweigh anything else’
I said, eternally thinking of his selflessness. At this he smiled
meekly, but maintained his solemn countenance. The next thing he said
took me aback.
‘I would like you to kill me.’
‘What?’ I asked in disbelief.
‘The power will allow you to do it’ he said, ‘and if you do my
influence on the world will end. This can only be a good thing.’
I was stunned. I did not know what to say. He was right of course,
his death would benefit the world, but how could I be the one to make
that decision? How could this man be so selfless and kind as to be
prepared to die to make things better?
‘Take the leash of your pet’ he said, ‘wring my neck with it. Nobody
knows who I am or that I am here, the people that would mourn my
passing have all themselves passed centuries ago. There is nobody to
miss me or to swear revenge at my death. It is the best for all that
you honour my request.’

My heart began to pound. I did indeed feel the power, I could do it.
I ordered Sylvester to sit and I took his leash, clutching it with both
fists as I stared at my friend. I stared for a long time, on the verge
of acting until I made my ultimate decision.
‘I can not’ I said. ‘I’m sorry.’
The man sighed. ‘You are my best friend’ he said.
What happened next was too horrible to behold. How could I have been
so narrow-minded as to forget about Sylvester? The way he snarled and
threatened on the first day had slipped my mind, and I had just freed
him from his restraint.

My friend did not scream as the dog leapt upon him, gnashing and
clawing at his body. I cried in protest but Sylvester was under a
spell, as far as he was concerned I did not exist at that moment.
I turned away, unable to hide from the hideous sounds coming from
behind, and I waited for silence.

When I reluctantly turned back, there stood my pet, wagging confusedly
and weeping at the foot of the body which he had dragged from life. My
friend lay next to his stone, lifeless and misshapen from the attack,
while Sylvester looked as though he had never attacked a single
creature in all his life.

I buried my face in my hands and cried. Sylvester tried to approach
me but I shook him off. Of course he hadn’t sentience enough to be
impressionable to my friend’s good will, but I could not look upon him
as anything other than a killer now.

I let my dog free, safe in the knowledge that he would never act in
that way again now that my friend had passed. It was upsetting to say
goodbye to him, but I knew I could never regard Sylvester as a friend
again. Then I looked at the leash in my hands, and wondered if my
friend had tricked me, asking me to remove it as he knew it would allow
the dog to attack where I could not.

On my walk back to the village I wondered whether people had enough
inherent ugliness to carry on causing misery or death despite the
absence of the power. It was certainly a possibility and would be
horrifying to think that my friend perished in vain. Nevertheless, I
was relieved by the events of recent weeks, in that I had met someone
who reminded me that the world is littered with people that
effortlessly inspire good.

My Holiday in Depravity

So I'm staggering through Embankment station with this kind of breezy drunken arrogance that people staring at me probably don't think I deserve, sniffing condescendingly at tourists trying to work out where the surprise chocolate comes out of the oyster card and slapping mine on the reader nonchalantly.  It doesn't work because I overcompensated how simple and inconsequential this task is so the reader doesn't actually get to read it.  My mask slips a bit and instead of laughing out my embarassment I choose to huff at the indignation of it all.  How dare the world around me not bend over backwards to uphold my uselessness as a human being?  The person the commuters would be seeing if they didn't all have frustrated tunnel-vision is not embarassed.  Londoners don't get embarassed, what could possibly ever be embarassing when you're the most important person in the world?
There's a massive hole in the crotch of my favourite jeans, not because I can't afford a new pair but because the idea of taking ten minutes out of my eventless day to stroll through a clothes shop sickens me so I'm playing chicken with the ever growing hole until I can put it off no longer.  If I were to be honest with myself I think these jeans passed the public decency threshold several weeks ago.  I'm sitting open-legged on the District line and the timid young Italian couple opposite me don't know where to look.  I'd have thought anywhere other than my cock would be the obvious answer... I shouldn't have worn baggy boxer shorts I guess, but I tell you this denim cock-hole has been a dream come true during the recent heat wave.
That period where you're already a bit drunk but are an undisclosed length of time away from being able to get another drink is quite nauseating.  Sobering up prematurely has a sort of knock-on effect on the rest of the evening.  I sometimes get this stinging sensation around the jaw when this happens, and the next pint doesn't go down too well but the one after that does.  How long is this journey anyway?  I never take any notice, instead I just tend to call it half an hour.  Central London to anywhere by tube is half an hour, flat out.
When I stand up I reach down and fumble around to make sure nothing's escaping the denim cock-hole (I wish) and stroll out of the dreary zone two station into the blinding light, which does no favours for my weird non-sober pre beer hangover thing.
'There's a five pound minimum to pay with a debit card'
'Alright then I'll pay for two and have the other one in a minute'
What is the minimum age for a man to sit in a pub by himself and not look strange?  It isn't twenty-five, but I've got friends on their way and I have a problem with punctuality; I'm always on time.  My jaw is stinging through renewed activity (I think next time I'll just sing on the tube to keep my jaw exercised.  Fuck you Boris, fuck you and your drinking ban.  Reckon tourists will be less freaked out by a 25-year old Harry Potter lookalike singing Abba songs to the ceiling of the tube train?) and as predicted this beer is not going down well but my headache is going away.  See I haven't had much sleep because I went out last night, got back home to the intrusive sound of birdsong and started work at 8.00am.  Then I had a beer when I finished and instead of killing a pointless two hours in my room where I would have let the last few days catch up with me and dozed off, being then too lethargic to go out again, I just carried on.  Jaegerbombs are like espressos anyway, surely?  Then I haven't really had time to eat, so everything I have to drink is taking no detour en route to my brain.  So am I already steaming pissed or just drowsy?  I need to up my race with the limits of my body. 
'Two jaegerbombs please'
'Two?'
'The other one's for my friend when he gets here, and there's a five pound card limit?  Oh and I'll have that other pint as well.'
The art of 'going to the fucking cashpoint before you walk into a pub' is dead.  Is the minimum spend requirement a half-arsed attempt at discouraging card transactions or is it the complete opposite of that; embracing the plastic revolution and capitalising on it?  Yes, actual cash is dead, but you're going to pay through the fucking nose if you want to latch on to this bandwagon, sunshine.
My friend turns up, finally (I'm trying to turn a drunken blur into prose so forgive the sparse characterisation.  Anyone reading this who thinks they were there can pretend its them, if they want).  We neck our jaegerbombs.
'How long have you been here?'
'20 minutes or so'
'And you're already drunk?'
A dismissive gesture and slurred grunt tell him that I started early.  Anyway, I'm not like those gassy old alcoholics that I quietly deride from the other end of the pub, I'm young and I'm, like, a vegetarian and, um I don't smoke and I'm an artist so its okay when I do it.
The rest is like greasy hands violently smearing themselves across my face so I lose sight and wave frantically to shrug my weird attacker away to no avail, they keep rubbing my face and laughing and it fucking hurts.  Everything I should be able to see is a stretched blur behind the hard-pressing, coarse fingers.  I lose balance and direction and when they finally tire of this pointless abuse I just want to trip dizzily to a barstool and dangle my drunken, bloated face over the bar, daydreaming about putting my penis in things that it doesn't belong in and burping annoyed, pissed-up cliches at nobody who will listen.  This is all fiction as far as I'm concerned, trying to remember it is no easier than writing something new so I will (and already have) dip in and out of actual fact and make things up when necessary.  Semi-fictionalising my life is decent compensation for having no ideas of my own and still looking like I deserve to be a writer.  Maybe I'll change my character's name to Jim or something.  There.  Now it's an original story.
So Jim spends the rest of the night going 'AH LAV THIS SHONG' and dancing like a traumatised grandparent at someone's wedding.  The last pint is always redundant in this state.  Jim has two warm, flat sips and won't even remember it, and it sits on the bar for an hour until the uncertain bartender plucks up the courage to just get rid of it.  Jim doesn't care.
Awkwardly swirling colours that don't appear to show any gradient of change yet change nonetheless dance and quiver around what was Jim as an incomprehensible barrage of unlinked thoughts divorced from any context pound on his functionless brain.  Why does he manage to remain so articulate in his ill-advised texts and facebook rants when he can't even perceive whether the person in front of him is friend, stranger or reflection?  Thoughts of treacle-like blood oozing from the bottom of a black boot as it is lifted from the crumpled skull of the former man beneath it.  Sharpened fingers piercing eyeballs like cellophane and clawing away at the fractured bone outlines of the seeping eye sockets.  The spiral goes progressively more chaotic and the thoughts mesh and distort until nothing more than smears of red and stifled screams curdle in Jim's mind.  He is a werewolf and the very poison that will thump his brain with every uttered syllable next morning is his moon.  He wants to smash bones and twist necks, swipe at jaws with blunt objects and slash at throats, stamp out genitalia with steel toe caps and spit blood on the twitiching remains.  Or dance some more.
Jim groans back into consciousness in a house that's further away from last night's venue than his own, but a drunk man loses grasp on his perception of finality and at the time there was no end of the night.  If the pub closes then there is the nightclub.  When that shuts there is a willing friend's studio flat.  When they sleep there's that last sip of whiskey and flat coke and if you're still awake beyond that then you truly are a monster.
After self-deprecating, pseudo-intellectual and pointlessly metaphorical reflections on a night nobody can remember, Jim bundles out into the afternoon rain, clutching his thin layers against his shaking skin and whimpering pathetically over his thumping head.  He darts about confusedly trying to remember the way to a tube station and eventually comforts himself with the theory that there is always one around the corner.  There is.  He feels biting cold around the groin and realises that the worn hole in the neglected jeans is now gaping, his bits flapping freely under his thin boxers.  Probably all that dancing.  He takes the tube journey back, now entertaining guilt, pain and regret in replacement of excitement and arrogance.  His entire week has been like this.  Jim breaks into a cold sweat as he remembers his drunken tendency to compound his deep-set, bitter thoughts through facebook on his smart phone.  It will be the better part of half an hour before he has any signal.  He will just have to stew in dread until then.
DELETE.
DELETE.
That one's quite funny and two friends have already liked it anyway.
DELETE.
I was sober when I wrote that, all is good.
Finally Jim gets to crawl into his own bed, sweating poisonous alcohol into his unwashed sheets and staring at whatever ugly-sounding American crap is glowing out of his TV.  But he has to be at work in an hour and preparing to spend the next nine hours convincing people he is a fully-functioning human is only worsening his hangover, thus making the impending task all the more challenging.  Fucking recursion.
He tells himself that 'I'll stay home tomorrow', watch TV or read that book he started four cunting weeks ago.  It's not even that long.  'You are an inarticulate, uncultured prick making vain attempts to look clever and convince yourself you're not interested in the same mundane shit every other cunt is into' he tells himself as he stares at the neglected volume at his bedside.  He wants to spend just one day recuperating and allow himself to be reminded that he is human, just go for a walk, sit down, stay off drink for one day.  What's one day?  Even the severest pissheads in the world can manage 24 fucking hours without a beer.  Are you worse than them?  But he gets a more interesting offer.  Time and time again.  Best friend is coming home from abroad!  Can't miss that shitfest!  Offered a last minute gig?  That rarely happens these days, take advantage!  So he's back at that godforsaken oyster card reader sidling through the gates of sensibility into a lashing rift of depravity and mindlessness.
Its easy to comfort oneself with bollocks reasoning when one is a degenerate fuckhead alcoholic.  'I have to keep doing this' thinks Jim.  'If I stop then I allow myself time to reflect on how despicable the world is.  Humans are cunts and if I drink enough I can periodically forget that I am one.  90% of the casualties in Iraq are civilians and yet we set up a second charity to help the gun-toting bastards that are killing them.  Strangers make snap judgements about me on the street and feel compelled to shout them at me as I pass.  When I'm in company I'm not familiar with I either lash out, grumble snide remarks that undercut their hollow philosophies or just leave.  And between leaving and getting home the overwhelming beckon of self-destruction proves near-irresistable.  There are plenty of high platforms and fast vehicles.  Why don't I just do it now?  Or I stay and rip into people.'  A drunken run in with a lost stranger, a fellow binge drinker, ended ugly this time.
'YOU'RE A FUCKING STUPID CUNT' (him)
He's ugly and his clothes are shit but I never reach for easy targets.  He seemed like a nice bloke before (even though right now I want to grab him by the jaws and tear his head open at the mouth) and I don't want to contribute to any lasting self-esteem issues.  I have no qualms with calling him a prick, because he probably isn't one therefore it shouldn't cut too deeply.
'STOP LAYING INTO MY FRIENDS YOU DULL PRICK' (me)
A previous, similar exchange ended with me hospitalised with a fat eye and a dented skull that I'm yet to have fixed so I drunkenly bow out of this one with drunken conviction in tact.
Next day I dwell on the drama, the fury of it all and the bile rises up in the back of my throat.  I can feel my face turn fire-red and what shreds of hope I may have had for humanity are strewn across the floor like the innards of animal carcasses in a slaughterhouse splashing grimly against the hard stone.  I want to grab the heaviest thing I can find and destroy the second heaviest thing.  Then I receive a text message and I'm saved.  I don't need sleep, the abuse I'm giving my body on a nightly basis has hardened me to fatigue and numbed me to remorse.  I'm leaving my seething brain at the door this time, I'm going to blitz whatever leftover consciousness there is with rivers of alcohol and I don't care how much I'm running my life into the ground.  I want to remove myself from this abomination of a species and I might as well do it through means I enjoy.
Mercy grants me a sunny day (though neglects to omit the arbitrary hangover) and I take some old advice and crawl to the nearest park for a lie down in the shade.  I'm flat on my back under the clear blue sky with my headphones drowning out reality.  Everything is beautiful and I haven't even thought about ducking out for an afternoon pint.  I periodically open my eyes and am greeted by sweltering, sweat-dripping bellies bouncing across the green, children dribbling pink ice cream and snot, tripping over footballs and inhuman shades of tanned, leathery skin shouting things at their equally-cooked mates.  I glance up at a distant plane overhead and despite the serenity I would love for the plane to dip right now and plummet toward me, not soaring gracefully to the ground but defying all physics and right-angling so it hurtles nose-first right into me.  I close my eyes and I can actually see its looming shape, growing by the second until all is darkness and I'm sprayed like shrapnel from a landmine into all corners of this park.
I still haven't replaced those jeans, its getting beyond a joke now.