Bang go the braincells, the liver shivers, and the skin starts to shrivel like a dehydrated prune. Another weekend of intoxication subsides like a cliffside cottage tumbling into the sea.
All day Sunday, vodka-in-the-neck returned on me as if a putrid dog was p**sing down my hairy throat. I'd recommend it. Vodka-in-the neck that is. First you swig the neck of a Smirnoff Ice, then you fill the neck up with a double vodka. Four of these and Bob's your uncle, your aunt and a comedy game with a porcelain bowl.
This celebration was prompted by visiting Jez, an excellent friend from University. Jez has put a bun in his wife's oven, and we had to spend our bread on toasting his success.
Fred (short for Frederica) is showing a bump that represents 12 weeks of nervousness. The impregnation has come as a great relief to them both, particularly Jez. It is a worry for every man, to some extent. My personal experience is that rugby boots make soft work of unprotected gonads, and slipping on electric fences makes pubic hair stand on end. Despite similar accidental tortures, Jez's tadpoles have proved that they can swim vigorously, vigorously enough to reach the spherical gamete of womanness and turn it into a prawn.
Jubilent at seeing each other again, Jez and I left Fred with the washing up and a lime cordial. On Fred's suggestion we headed into town to chat mano-a-mano, and read birds' names from an Eye-spy paperback - such as Shag, Shoveller, Spoonbill, Little Tern, Woodcock, Swallow, Mistel Thrush, Great Tit, Raven, Great Skua, Horned Lark, Northern Flicker, Ruff etc.
Jez wore a pink cardigan so come 3a.m. every bouncer directed us to gay bars,which weren't on the agenda for us. After 3 vodka-in-the-necks and 4 jugs of Star we found a place with titties and beer in a seedy backstreet of Bristol. Unfortunately, this wasn't the kind of bar where the girls take off their clothes for money, but it was the kind of place to hang out with Gracey and her sister, Memphis.
Gracey was 17 in age and stone. Twice as wide as me, and when she talked her cleavage leant into my beer as if her nipples would suck up the alcohol and spray it across the room.
In a thick West-Country accent, Gracey told me that she has a one-year-old at home, and her sister who is 19 also has a baby. I asked her, politely, how she spends her free time, she told me: "Oi loike foitin' men. Oi dun loike foitin' wimmin, bah oi loike foitin' men". It was a wise decision not to ask her about the father of her child. When this scary creature from Viz started threatening to flick cigarettes at ethnic minorities Jez and I politely asked her not to (which she did to our surprise), and then we moved away from this unpleasant elephant. Clearly motherhood does not have a calming and maturing influence on all women, we discussed, back on piste.
We started to recover from this ordeal over a kebab and an irn bru. As Corporate Blawg chewed the garlic sauce, Jez told me he wanted me to be one of the three Godfathers to his barn. Congealed chicken fat escaped his nose. Me? A godfather? Had he lost his mind? Apparently not. He said that I was the one to take his sprog to Glastonbury and hear funky jazz musicians in the West End. I decided to park this idea for another day.
And now, back at work, all that seems quite far away. At least two hours on the motorway. Haven't told the wife about the godfather thaing yet, in case she thinks I'm ready for responsiblity.
Corporate Blawg has discovered the fear of fatherhood (approximately 2years and 6 months as agreed with the wife), the fear of fatherhood and losing all that's known and good. So Corporate Blawg has ditched his other blog and will also record here (in green) all that there is to lose before it's gone - craziness of youth, adventures of adolescent proportions, and mis-spent hours between the playstation and the pub.
Corporate Blueg is temporarily on holiday in Rogersnogfairy, for at least another fortnight, maybe.