Back up

I’ve managed to perform at least once every month this year; it’s not been much, but it’s been enough to make me feel I still have a toehold in comedy. However, what with attending to our newborn and a comedy night being cancelled, I worried that July might be the month that broke me. My unbroken run was saved, by a spot at the Talk Cock open mike at Blu Jazz.
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Happy Anniversary

At about five this afternoon, my wife sent me a message on Skype, asking if I wanted to go out for dinner. I gave this some thought: there’s plenty of stuff in the fridge, and although I was paid less than a week ago, we’re trying to economise, what with having a newborn to care for and all. Then again, I haven’t treated my wife to dinner for a little while (if you don’t count buying her an ice cream while I was utterly plastered on Friday night), and, lovable though our daughter is, everyone deserves to get out of the house every so often.

It wasn’t until half an hour or so later, when I received a congratulatory email from my sister, that I realized it was two years ago today that I’d married my wife, and in the whirlwind of births, birthdays and booze it had completely slipped my mind. Whoops.
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Express yourself

My wife sent me two messages today, both in a state of great excitement. The first was that our daughter now has a passport, courtesy of those nice people in the Canadian government. It only lasts for two years, but in the month since the photo was taken, her appearance has already changed from ‘cheerful turnip’ to ‘humanoid baby’ so I guess it’s better than her being saddled with this picture for a decade:
Apart from anything else, the maple leaf that’s superimposed on her looks a bit less to me like a proud statement of her Canadian citizenship, and a bit more like we’re some awful, Kiss-obsessed parents who decided we should dress our baby up like a fat version of Ace Frehley. (Although from recent photos, it looks like Ace Frehley is the fat version of Ace Frehley, which makes that even more redundant.) Still, we have our passport, which means as long as my HR department submit the paperwork for our daughter’s Dependent Pass on time, I won’t be going to jail, which makes me very happy.
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Yesterday I felt dreadful after my compact but effective drinking binge. In fact, I didn’t really feel healthy again until 6pm, which, unfortunately, was when I started drinking again, and so in turn I felt rotten today. We didn’t have much to do, except for a child’s birthday party to attend, but even that was a trial for me. The sun was too bright, the sky was too blue, the air was too warm, the taxi was too fast, it was all too much. At least Felicity was the model of a good citizen, alternately sleeping and eating for the entire day, without making a single complaint.

This is my life. I hang around with other men, and we discuss the bowel movements of our children, or the nipples of our wives, and it doesn’t even seem strange any more.
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Drunker again

I woke today, confused and baffled and hung over, lying on the sofa in the living room with all the lights on, huge holes punched in my memory, vaguely certain that I’d been drinking strong cocktails from a coconut the night before.

I struggled all morning, failing to engage with the universe, then went to my first ever Spanish class. I’ve never been to a language class that I wanted to before in my life, so that was quite different. I’ve also never seen an electronic dry erase board before, a singularly impressive piece of technology.

I was fairly pleased with my progress today, although it’s not like I was doing super difficult Spanish. After two hours I could ask, with some hope of being comprehended, what country a ki, Hanerman,is frolic kfnodneiz ansnAakaiunqinnnnsibyiu dinnt wjpa but that suggests maybe I’ve list the plot.

I wish I knew what I meant at this point.  Had I got so drunk I was now typing fluently in Finnish?  Bulgarian? 

This evening, I undid all my good work,by cookinenn food. I hope what I wrote tonight will be more efficient

And then I just stopped.  I think I meant I undid my good work by cooking and eating food, but exactly what good work had I undone?  Is learning Spanish incompatible with eating? Should I ever drink again?

Drunk again

I came home drunk from an evening of heavy drinking, baffled and confused by the world. One of my colleagues had suggested drinking shots, but no matter how hard the week, four shots of strong booze plus three or four cocktails don’t make for a calm night.

In the cold light of Monday morning, I think it’s best to reconsider what I wrote that evening.  A readable start to it all, but soon I began to deterioate:

Eventually I wrested myself from,their alcoholic embrace and fled home, intent on reading more Westlake to my wife and child. Unfortunately, having eyes pointing in different directions and limbs choosing other rents, it’s hard to gve people proper advice. What can you do?

Limbs choosing other rents ?  Is this (a) bad poetry, (b) an untrustworthy spellchecker, (c) some strange combination of Marxism and body dysmorphia or (d) a sign of UTTER MADNESS?

I got home, drunk. Passed out with my mouth in a bag of salt and vinegar crisps. “I’d want to go that way” said one outspoken, possibly drunk, acquaintance. We let him speak. We shouldn’t have.

I’m not sure what my drunken mind was trying to relate at this point.  Apparently there was somebody else in the apartment with us, talking about choking to death on crisps.  Or I was drunk enough to be capable of time travel and had gone back several hours, and to the bar, to tell the others about how I was going to end up with a face full of crisps.  Either way, it’s very concerning.

I shouldn’t have done tequila shots. I regretted it then, I regret it now. Surely there’s some justice in the world.

That, at least, seems reasonable.