February 29, 2004
Emotionally and physically drained
What a weekend. I've spent too much time with just women... talking about "feelings". Even footie today was very emotional. We lost an important cup match... We were crushed in the changing rooms after, but the manager just got stuck in telling us how fucking crap we are... despite the fact that we're second in the league and haven't lost for about 9 games. Now this guy, he's one of my absolute best mates in the world, but there's a particular knack to talking to women... and critisising us... and today he was way off the mark. I couldn't even look at him I was so furious. I very rarely get angry with my mates, but I haven't been able to speak to him and I know he's going to call me tomorrow to get my feedback.
Emotions and feelings are things I understand very well, but 48 hours non-stop "sharing and fucking caring" can just do it to you, can't it? And then to lose in the fucking cup?
Wish I was a bloke sometimes. Shrug it all off.
|
What a weekend. I've spent too much time with just women... talking about "feelings". Even footie today was very emotional. We lost an important cup match... We were crushed in the changing rooms after, but the manager just got stuck in telling us how fucking crap we are... despite the fact that we're second in the league and haven't lost for about 9 games. Now this guy, he's one of my absolute best mates in the world, but there's a particular knack to talking to women... and critisising us... and today he was way off the mark. I couldn't even look at him I was so furious. I very rarely get angry with my mates, but I haven't been able to speak to him and I know he's going to call me tomorrow to get my feedback.
Emotions and feelings are things I understand very well, but 48 hours non-stop "sharing and fucking caring" can just do it to you, can't it? And then to lose in the fucking cup?
Wish I was a bloke sometimes. Shrug it all off.
February 26, 2004
Game Over!!!
5 hours sleep
1 Raging hangover
1 Missed train
8 hours work
1 Missed meeting
Huge amounts of caffeine
Huge amounts of chocolate
1 Traffic jam
2 hours football training
1 bottle of Grolsch
And now Robbie's on the fucking radio... that's it, I'm off to bed.
|
5 hours sleep
1 Raging hangover
1 Missed train
8 hours work
1 Missed meeting
Huge amounts of caffeine
Huge amounts of chocolate
1 Traffic jam
2 hours football training
1 bottle of Grolsch
And now Robbie's on the fucking radio... that's it, I'm off to bed.
February 25, 2004
Piste Again
A couple of years back I went snowboarding with a group of friends. I’m not a skier or boarder by nature and have only ever been a few times. Subsequently I spent most of the week either…
hurling myself off ski lifts, crashing into the snow at high speeds and falling on my arse,
or…
getting drunk.
Being significantly more practiced I performed the latter with the style, sophistication and grace that I lacked on the slopes. Or so I thought…
During the course of the week we had made a particular watering hole our home from home and had developed a penchant for a drink aptly named “The Altitude Adjuster”. One night, having adjusted a little too well, my mate G and I decided to pick up our boards, and head back to the hotel.
We were staggering our way down the high street, snowboard in one hand, pizza in the other, talking vast amounts of shit when it suddenly dawned on me that I desperately needed a wee. Really badly.
“G, I need a piss.”
“We won’t be long.”
“No, I really really need a piss. I’m bursting.”
“Fucking hell. Alright, let’s find a bar.”
We looked around but the only open place was charging twenty Euros to get in.
“Fuck that”, said G. “You’ll have to go behind a bush”.
“No way! There are people everywhere. I’m not doing that.”
“Well, you’ll just have to piss yourself then.”
“Bollocks. Alright, but let’s see if we can find somewhere a little more discreet.”
We wandered further down the road until we came to a break in the line of shops and restaurants with what looked like a driveway leading away from the street into pitch darkness.
“Up there”, he said.
“But it’s really dark, I can’t see anything”.
“That’s what you want isn’t it? Don’t worry; I’ll keep a look out. Now go on, give me your board. I’m freezing my bollocks off”.
I shuffled away reluctantly up the track. I couldn’t see a thing, so I only went up a little way, about five metres or so.
After a word of reassurance from G that he couldn’t see me, and satisfied that I was obscured from the throng of après-skiers making their snowy way home, I set about unfastening my ski trousers in earnest. What seemed like eight buckles and twelve Velcro strips later, I had them down round my ankles and was left with my thermal long-johns. I grabbed their waistline, pulled them down, gathered any loose material out of the way and settled into the squat position ready to relieve myself.
It was at that exact moment that a set of security lamps decided to kick in and bathe me in their glaring beams of light. There I was, trousers round my ankles, squatting, arse protruding.
Like a rabbit in headlights, I couldn’t move. G spun round. People passing by on the street stopped and stared. And then I became aware of my exact surroundings. I was in the driveway of some luxury ski apartments. A quick look over my shoulder told me I was only three metres or so in front of the lobby entrance, my arse pointing directly at it.
More exposed, I could not be. More embarrassed I have never been. It seemed to take an age to pull all my gear up and as soon as I had, I bolted to hide behind a wall.
G had to bribe me out into the open with the promise of two more altitude adjusters before we went home. I drank them to forget...
|
A couple of years back I went snowboarding with a group of friends. I’m not a skier or boarder by nature and have only ever been a few times. Subsequently I spent most of the week either…
hurling myself off ski lifts, crashing into the snow at high speeds and falling on my arse,
or…
getting drunk.
Being significantly more practiced I performed the latter with the style, sophistication and grace that I lacked on the slopes. Or so I thought…
During the course of the week we had made a particular watering hole our home from home and had developed a penchant for a drink aptly named “The Altitude Adjuster”. One night, having adjusted a little too well, my mate G and I decided to pick up our boards, and head back to the hotel.
We were staggering our way down the high street, snowboard in one hand, pizza in the other, talking vast amounts of shit when it suddenly dawned on me that I desperately needed a wee. Really badly.
“G, I need a piss.”
“We won’t be long.”
“No, I really really need a piss. I’m bursting.”
“Fucking hell. Alright, let’s find a bar.”
We looked around but the only open place was charging twenty Euros to get in.
“Fuck that”, said G. “You’ll have to go behind a bush”.
“No way! There are people everywhere. I’m not doing that.”
“Well, you’ll just have to piss yourself then.”
“Bollocks. Alright, but let’s see if we can find somewhere a little more discreet.”
We wandered further down the road until we came to a break in the line of shops and restaurants with what looked like a driveway leading away from the street into pitch darkness.
“Up there”, he said.
“But it’s really dark, I can’t see anything”.
“That’s what you want isn’t it? Don’t worry; I’ll keep a look out. Now go on, give me your board. I’m freezing my bollocks off”.
I shuffled away reluctantly up the track. I couldn’t see a thing, so I only went up a little way, about five metres or so.
After a word of reassurance from G that he couldn’t see me, and satisfied that I was obscured from the throng of après-skiers making their snowy way home, I set about unfastening my ski trousers in earnest. What seemed like eight buckles and twelve Velcro strips later, I had them down round my ankles and was left with my thermal long-johns. I grabbed their waistline, pulled them down, gathered any loose material out of the way and settled into the squat position ready to relieve myself.
It was at that exact moment that a set of security lamps decided to kick in and bathe me in their glaring beams of light. There I was, trousers round my ankles, squatting, arse protruding.
Like a rabbit in headlights, I couldn’t move. G spun round. People passing by on the street stopped and stared. And then I became aware of my exact surroundings. I was in the driveway of some luxury ski apartments. A quick look over my shoulder told me I was only three metres or so in front of the lobby entrance, my arse pointing directly at it.
More exposed, I could not be. More embarrassed I have never been. It seemed to take an age to pull all my gear up and as soon as I had, I bolted to hide behind a wall.
G had to bribe me out into the open with the promise of two more altitude adjusters before we went home. I drank them to forget...
February 23, 2004
Dilemma
The trouble with going to parties is that you inevitably, at some point or other, get cornered talking to someone who is either boring or insane or both. But what do you do when that person emails you the Monday after? I don’t remember giving her my email address. But then again, I don’t remember much at all…
The problem is that this girl is a really good mate with the girl who's party it was, who is a really good mate of mine. (that worries me in itself). During the 20 minutes I spoke with her, my eyes glazed over approximately ten times and I had to be revived from my catatonic state with a cheeky mojito prepared lovingly by an evil friend.
I'm BOUND to meet her again at one time or other (hopefully not in the too near future), so do I reply to this email? It also turns out she lives a mere two stops away from me. Does that mean I'm duty bound to meet her for drinks?
|
The trouble with going to parties is that you inevitably, at some point or other, get cornered talking to someone who is either boring or insane or both. But what do you do when that person emails you the Monday after? I don’t remember giving her my email address. But then again, I don’t remember much at all…
The problem is that this girl is a really good mate with the girl who's party it was, who is a really good mate of mine. (that worries me in itself). During the 20 minutes I spoke with her, my eyes glazed over approximately ten times and I had to be revived from my catatonic state with a cheeky mojito prepared lovingly by an evil friend.
I'm BOUND to meet her again at one time or other (hopefully not in the too near future), so do I reply to this email? It also turns out she lives a mere two stops away from me. Does that mean I'm duty bound to meet her for drinks?
February 20, 2004
To stand or not to stand
On the tube home yesterday I was lucky enough to spot an empty seat so I deftly elbowed the old dear in front of me out of the way and sat down in it. I set about making myself comfortable while the blind octogenarian flailed around, desperately trying to hold her shopping bag, zimmerframe and knitting needles while trying to remain upright all at the same time. I turned the page; my book was interesting.
A couple of stops later and from the corner of my eye I spied a young woman with a bump in her tummy standing a few yards away. Chapter over and my station just two stops away, I was outraged. A pregnant woman standing up? How can that be?
Just as I was about to offer up my seat, a thought came over me. What if she isn't pregnant? What if she's just a little tubby round the tummy area? The bump wasn't that obvious. And yet I think she's pregnant and couldn't live with myself if I allowed her to stand. But then if she's not pregnant, and I offer her my seat, she'll be mortified. Oh god, what do I do? What do I do?
It was fifty-fifty, hanging in the balance. I took a breath and decided to risk it.
"Erm, excuse me", I said gathering my stuff together and beginning to stand. "Would you like to sit down?"
She looked up, eyes wide with horror, a deep crimson blush developing over her features.
"No, er no. Thank you. I'm fine... erm fine." Her voice trailed off and she looked down at her feet, her hair falling to cover her face.
FUCK FUCK FUCK. What have I done? She's not fucking pregnant after all. I hate myself. I've made this poor woman look fat in front of these people, all of whom are staring at us. Some are laughing now, because my face has turned red too.
What can I do to make her feel better, to rescue the situation? Should I say something funny to lighten the mood? What could I possibly say? Should I claim I thought I saw her limping earlier? That would be lame in itself. But I had to do something.
This was my fault and it was my responsibility to remedy it.
"Oh well," I thought to myself as I shouldered my bag and stepped off the tube at my stop. "She'll get over it".
|
On the tube home yesterday I was lucky enough to spot an empty seat so I deftly elbowed the old dear in front of me out of the way and sat down in it. I set about making myself comfortable while the blind octogenarian flailed around, desperately trying to hold her shopping bag, zimmerframe and knitting needles while trying to remain upright all at the same time. I turned the page; my book was interesting.
A couple of stops later and from the corner of my eye I spied a young woman with a bump in her tummy standing a few yards away. Chapter over and my station just two stops away, I was outraged. A pregnant woman standing up? How can that be?
Just as I was about to offer up my seat, a thought came over me. What if she isn't pregnant? What if she's just a little tubby round the tummy area? The bump wasn't that obvious. And yet I think she's pregnant and couldn't live with myself if I allowed her to stand. But then if she's not pregnant, and I offer her my seat, she'll be mortified. Oh god, what do I do? What do I do?
It was fifty-fifty, hanging in the balance. I took a breath and decided to risk it.
"Erm, excuse me", I said gathering my stuff together and beginning to stand. "Would you like to sit down?"
She looked up, eyes wide with horror, a deep crimson blush developing over her features.
"No, er no. Thank you. I'm fine... erm fine." Her voice trailed off and she looked down at her feet, her hair falling to cover her face.
FUCK FUCK FUCK. What have I done? She's not fucking pregnant after all. I hate myself. I've made this poor woman look fat in front of these people, all of whom are staring at us. Some are laughing now, because my face has turned red too.
What can I do to make her feel better, to rescue the situation? Should I say something funny to lighten the mood? What could I possibly say? Should I claim I thought I saw her limping earlier? That would be lame in itself. But I had to do something.
This was my fault and it was my responsibility to remedy it.
"Oh well," I thought to myself as I shouldered my bag and stepped off the tube at my stop. "She'll get over it".
February 18, 2004
PMT – Pissed-off, Miserable and Tired
Oooooooooh, my hormones are a-blazing and my moods are a-swinging… all over the fucking place. I dare anyone to try and take me on today. I’ll crush them into the very ground they stand on. I’ll pierce their souls to the core with looks that can, and will, kill. I’ll take their spirit and crush it to my body, squeezing the happiness out until all they’re left with is a shrivelled and limp will to help them through the day.
Yes, I got my period yesterday and I’m hurting. I’m hurting all over. My back, my stomach, my head. I hurt inside and out and I’m just fucking pissed off about it.
And I’m tired. I’m so tired I’m worried I’ll crack my head open on my desk when my neck muscles eventually give. I didn’t sleep well last night. It wasn’t proper sleep anyway. I met B for dinner and we saw away the best part of a bottle of wine each. She went to the bar for two glasses and came back with two bottles instead. “Buy one get one free,” she said, shrugging her shoulders sheepishly. It helped last night, but it gets you in the end.
It has behaved weirdly this month, my menstrual cycle. It took me completely by surprise. Usually PMT strikes about three days in advance. I start feeling a little down for no apparent reason, and get frustrated at the weirdest things, like spilling water or doing my shoelaces up. Then comes phase-two, when I become hyperactive and restless, jumping and darting round the office in a whirlwind of near hysteria. It’s about then that I usually twig. “Ah, I’m due on. That’ll be it”, and I start to relax into the realisation that I’m not in fact clinically insane. And then, when the period eventually starts I’m usually lucky enough to get the mildest of cramps that are easily dispensed of with a couple of nurofen.
But this month? Oh fucking no! Did my body even try and warn me? Well, why the fuck would it? Instead, I’ve been feeling completely and utterly normal, innocently going about my business without an inkling in the world that the worst period, the one from hell, the mother of all periods, the “uber-period” was about to strike. And then “BANG, motherfucker, here I am to render you so utterly retched for the next three days. Bitch, you is gonna beg me to stop!”
And I am, I’m begging. Please stop. I’m so miserable today. And my poor colleagues, they’re scared shitless and I try and explain that it’s not me, it’s my period and they just run, run into the distance like baby antelopes from a cheetah. Except, I’m not a cheetah at all and I can’t catch up with them. I’m just a poor misunderstood house-cat that’s been bitten in the stomach by a rabid rottweiler. I need people to cuddle me, not flee from me. I’ll try not to bite. I’ll try not to scratch. Please cuddle me, I’ll be better soon….
|
Oooooooooh, my hormones are a-blazing and my moods are a-swinging… all over the fucking place. I dare anyone to try and take me on today. I’ll crush them into the very ground they stand on. I’ll pierce their souls to the core with looks that can, and will, kill. I’ll take their spirit and crush it to my body, squeezing the happiness out until all they’re left with is a shrivelled and limp will to help them through the day.
Yes, I got my period yesterday and I’m hurting. I’m hurting all over. My back, my stomach, my head. I hurt inside and out and I’m just fucking pissed off about it.
And I’m tired. I’m so tired I’m worried I’ll crack my head open on my desk when my neck muscles eventually give. I didn’t sleep well last night. It wasn’t proper sleep anyway. I met B for dinner and we saw away the best part of a bottle of wine each. She went to the bar for two glasses and came back with two bottles instead. “Buy one get one free,” she said, shrugging her shoulders sheepishly. It helped last night, but it gets you in the end.
It has behaved weirdly this month, my menstrual cycle. It took me completely by surprise. Usually PMT strikes about three days in advance. I start feeling a little down for no apparent reason, and get frustrated at the weirdest things, like spilling water or doing my shoelaces up. Then comes phase-two, when I become hyperactive and restless, jumping and darting round the office in a whirlwind of near hysteria. It’s about then that I usually twig. “Ah, I’m due on. That’ll be it”, and I start to relax into the realisation that I’m not in fact clinically insane. And then, when the period eventually starts I’m usually lucky enough to get the mildest of cramps that are easily dispensed of with a couple of nurofen.
But this month? Oh fucking no! Did my body even try and warn me? Well, why the fuck would it? Instead, I’ve been feeling completely and utterly normal, innocently going about my business without an inkling in the world that the worst period, the one from hell, the mother of all periods, the “uber-period” was about to strike. And then “BANG, motherfucker, here I am to render you so utterly retched for the next three days. Bitch, you is gonna beg me to stop!”
And I am, I’m begging. Please stop. I’m so miserable today. And my poor colleagues, they’re scared shitless and I try and explain that it’s not me, it’s my period and they just run, run into the distance like baby antelopes from a cheetah. Except, I’m not a cheetah at all and I can’t catch up with them. I’m just a poor misunderstood house-cat that’s been bitten in the stomach by a rabid rottweiler. I need people to cuddle me, not flee from me. I’ll try not to bite. I’ll try not to scratch. Please cuddle me, I’ll be better soon….
February 11, 2004
See you next Tuesday…
“Cunt”, a four-letter word like “arch”, “foot”, “bird”, “tree” or “book”. Four letters placed together in a particular sequence prompting people to use their mouth, tongue, teeth and vocal chords to utter a specific series of sounds that are identifiable by others.
And yet these four letters in this particular sequence come together to form a word that has such force and venom, a word that can slice through a conversation, thought or situation so as to stop it dead in its tracks. But at the end of the day it’s only a word.
It works on a number of levels:
First and foremost its literal definition refers, albeit in a vulgar and derogatory way, to the vagina.
It’s most common use is as an insult and to be called a “cunt” is the very worst insult imaginable (with the possible exception of “nonce”). An exact definition is impossible, but for me a “cunt” in this context is a complete and utter arsehole, someone who takes no issue in shitting on anybody from the greatest heights imaginable.
Then there is a lighter use. In many pubs around the English speaking world it isn't unusual to hear mates referring to each other as “cunts”. For example if one bloke drops his pint, his mates may well laugh and call him a “stupid cunt”.
Personally, I love the word. CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT.
The sheer power of it is like a drug, one that I use in secret and can share with only a select number of fellow addicts.
You should see me driving a car:
“Get out of the cunting fucking way you fucking CUNT” - Ahhhhhh, the euphoric sense of satisfaction upon the release of such a beautiful utterance; the blissed out climax when I throw my head back, smack my hand on the dashboard and scream out the final word.
Inevitably, I feel the resentment keenly when I must fight it back for the sake of any passengers. Occasionally I let one slip out under my breath hoping that the radio will drown it out. Nevertheless I catch questioning glances in my direction as they wonder if they heard correctly.
“Hmmm? Did you say something?” I ask distractedly to throw them off the scent.
“No, No. Nothing”.
But tell me. What’s wrong with that word? I challenge you to stand on your own in a room, repeating the word over and over again and not to feel a growing sense of release as you do.
“CUNT”…That one’s for my boss.
“CUNT”…That’s for the twat who nearly ran me off the road.
“CUNT”…That one’s for the guy who smashed his briefcase into my calf this morning.
“CUNT”…
“CUNT”…
“CUNT”…
Aaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!...
“...Right, tea anyone?”
|
“Cunt”, a four-letter word like “arch”, “foot”, “bird”, “tree” or “book”. Four letters placed together in a particular sequence prompting people to use their mouth, tongue, teeth and vocal chords to utter a specific series of sounds that are identifiable by others.
And yet these four letters in this particular sequence come together to form a word that has such force and venom, a word that can slice through a conversation, thought or situation so as to stop it dead in its tracks. But at the end of the day it’s only a word.
It works on a number of levels:
First and foremost its literal definition refers, albeit in a vulgar and derogatory way, to the vagina.
It’s most common use is as an insult and to be called a “cunt” is the very worst insult imaginable (with the possible exception of “nonce”). An exact definition is impossible, but for me a “cunt” in this context is a complete and utter arsehole, someone who takes no issue in shitting on anybody from the greatest heights imaginable.
Then there is a lighter use. In many pubs around the English speaking world it isn't unusual to hear mates referring to each other as “cunts”. For example if one bloke drops his pint, his mates may well laugh and call him a “stupid cunt”.
Personally, I love the word. CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT.
The sheer power of it is like a drug, one that I use in secret and can share with only a select number of fellow addicts.
You should see me driving a car:
“Get out of the cunting fucking way you fucking CUNT” - Ahhhhhh, the euphoric sense of satisfaction upon the release of such a beautiful utterance; the blissed out climax when I throw my head back, smack my hand on the dashboard and scream out the final word.
Inevitably, I feel the resentment keenly when I must fight it back for the sake of any passengers. Occasionally I let one slip out under my breath hoping that the radio will drown it out. Nevertheless I catch questioning glances in my direction as they wonder if they heard correctly.
“Hmmm? Did you say something?” I ask distractedly to throw them off the scent.
“No, No. Nothing”.
But tell me. What’s wrong with that word? I challenge you to stand on your own in a room, repeating the word over and over again and not to feel a growing sense of release as you do.
“CUNT”…That one’s for my boss.
“CUNT”…That’s for the twat who nearly ran me off the road.
“CUNT”…That one’s for the guy who smashed his briefcase into my calf this morning.
“CUNT”…
“CUNT”…
“CUNT”…
Aaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!...
“...Right, tea anyone?”
February 03, 2004
I can feel her padding quietly along behind me on my way to work, reminding me that she’s not going anywhere now that I’ve given her a release.
Waiting for the train, she glances surreptitiously through the commuters at the lovely young thing walking down the platform unawares. She turns to me with eyebrows raised.
“For God’s sake”, I say, “it’s half seven in the morning. Leave it alone”.
On the way down to the tube, she scans the Up escalator for innocent prey, distracting me from the crossword.
“Go home”, I tell her. “Take the day off and catch up on some beauty sleep.”
“No fucking way”, she doesn’t even look at me and is unable to conceal the hunger in her eyes. “There’s too much to see, too much to do”.
And at Bond Street it starts. I leave the station and head towards the sandwich shop to pick up breakfast.
“Yes, yes”, she urges me on. “There’s that cute Spanish guy that pours the tea”.
“No”, I try pleading with her. “He’s only a kid. He’s done nothing to you. Leave him alone”.
“He’s legal,” she shrugs her shoulders indifferently. “Why shouldn’t I?”
As we walk in she checks her hair quickly and smiles.
“Hola”, says the kid.
“Hola. Como estas?” she replies.
I’m aghast.
“You’re speaking Spanish to him now? Tramp!”
She shoots me a withering look.
“The usual?” he asks
“Si, gracias. It’s so nice that you remember it for me every morning”.
A woman in the shop looks over, barely able to conceal her scorn.
“Easy”, I warn, the last of my patience disappearing.
“Why not?” she asks flippantly.
I grit my teeth.
“Because I come here every fucking morning and I’m fucked if I’m going to pass up the best marmite toast in Mayfair just because you can’t keep control of your fucking hormones”.
I hand over some cash, grab her by the scruff of her neck and head for the door.
“You’re fucking pathetic,” she says as we head for the office.
“Fuck you,” I say
“Fuck you, too”.
|
Waiting for the train, she glances surreptitiously through the commuters at the lovely young thing walking down the platform unawares. She turns to me with eyebrows raised.
“For God’s sake”, I say, “it’s half seven in the morning. Leave it alone”.
On the way down to the tube, she scans the Up escalator for innocent prey, distracting me from the crossword.
“Go home”, I tell her. “Take the day off and catch up on some beauty sleep.”
“No fucking way”, she doesn’t even look at me and is unable to conceal the hunger in her eyes. “There’s too much to see, too much to do”.
And at Bond Street it starts. I leave the station and head towards the sandwich shop to pick up breakfast.
“Yes, yes”, she urges me on. “There’s that cute Spanish guy that pours the tea”.
“No”, I try pleading with her. “He’s only a kid. He’s done nothing to you. Leave him alone”.
“He’s legal,” she shrugs her shoulders indifferently. “Why shouldn’t I?”
As we walk in she checks her hair quickly and smiles.
“Hola”, says the kid.
“Hola. Como estas?” she replies.
I’m aghast.
“You’re speaking Spanish to him now? Tramp!”
She shoots me a withering look.
“The usual?” he asks
“Si, gracias. It’s so nice that you remember it for me every morning”.
A woman in the shop looks over, barely able to conceal her scorn.
“Easy”, I warn, the last of my patience disappearing.
“Why not?” she asks flippantly.
I grit my teeth.
“Because I come here every fucking morning and I’m fucked if I’m going to pass up the best marmite toast in Mayfair just because you can’t keep control of your fucking hormones”.
I hand over some cash, grab her by the scruff of her neck and head for the door.
“You’re fucking pathetic,” she says as we head for the office.
“Fuck you,” I say
“Fuck you, too”.
