It's finally got warm and, as ever, I'm not sure how to deal with it. Warm weather means worrying about flab and pallor, which in turn makes me disgusted with myself for succumbing to such boringly oppressive ideals. It also means being peppered with insect bites. I usually get one healthy bout of them around this time of year, a liberal sprinkling whose marks then linger for the whole summer. Curses. I just spent half an hour trying to clap one small black flying thing to death, and when I succeeded I didn't even realise it. Finally saw one wing and ink spot on finger indicating battle had been won. I've recently developed the ability to catch flies with one hand and then release them, but this one wasn't going to get the opportunity to feast on my soft white flesh.
There's another one. You'll get yours, chum.
The warm weather also brings a certain reflectiveness. This year I've found myself having to face up to some hard facts, having been sitting resolutely on them as if on a treacherous sofa concealing a gang of renegade springs. Some of them are so dreadful that I cannot yet look them in the eye. Some are just about tame enough for me to approach and, hopefully, overcome. If others can tackle such Herculean tasks, then so can I.
The truth is that I have a problem. An issue, if you will, with excess. Booze, drugs, sex. The usual suspects. For some time now I've been denying that I'm on a slippery, slidey slope. It's a swine and a bastard, but this month is where I finally stand up to it, see it for what it is and find it in myself to change, if only for four weeks. Because if I'm honest, brutally honest with my weak self, I'm not getting nearly enough of any of them.
I seldom don't opt not to drink alone. I just can't accept that fourth beer; the fifth and sixth and seventh all fly by into someone else's mouth. Wine goes down like it's general anaesthetic laced with Toilet Duck. Rare is the night when I crack open a bottle and suddenly I'm waking up at lunchtime with a French pig shitting in my head. I pop pills and snort lines and smoke like there's a tomorrow and I have to get up especially early for it. I get wild and crazy almost every two years. It affects my mood; I'm often agreeable, chatty, sensible, starting conversations in the street. It's reached a point where my life is becoming intolerable - the tedium is out of control, and it's past time I dealt with it.
Thus I'm embarking on a filth-encrusted fucking vomit-flecked steaming flailing bugger of a bender for the entire month. I will storm every pub I pass until its derelict cellar reverberates with pleas for mercy. I will light each virgin Marlboro with the fizzling embers of its predecessor. I will eat cannabis sandwiches and take three spoons of coke in my mushroom tea. I will cultivate some sort of sordid mutually-beneficial arrangement with Camden Town's dealers. It's going to be a motherfucker, but with God's help I'll conquer this terrible affliction.
I began in earnest yesterday by gradually consuming all the alcohol, bleach and psychoactive material in the house. This afternoon I drank my weight in Malibu. I like Malibu. It tastes like Keith Richards falling out of a tree.
Now I can't catch that fly. Ah! I'll breathe on it.