I was shuffling them out, the stragglers, in a much more respectable a state than I’d been a few hours previous. Not that I didn’t want their company, legends all. But when the sun comes up and all the women are gone it’s time to say goodbye.
With a look of blank honesty and unpretentious good intentions himself, a last orders saint, turns to me “you gonn clean dis up all up by yourself?”. I nod reassuringly. He doesn’t look reassured, like he’s just considered the aftermath of nuclear fallout for the first time. Or being out of credit and facebook crashing on the same day, it’s hard to tell with some people.
“But the place is shhhhhhhhhhhhhtate! I inshish, NO, Ay Demanh, dah you take mah number”. It’s already in my phone, twice, but sure fuck it. He seems pretty determined. “Now you call me tomorrow when ye gerrup, Ahm in de moh(hic)tes gaff up de roah, anh I’ll help ye clean upsh”.
No he won’t, and given that he won’t remember this conversation, it wouldn’t be fair to call him on it. Poor pityful child, as helpless now as when…well…he wakes up tomorrow.
And besides, cleaning is it’s own reward. I found a half bottle of rum. And cigarrettes. The ultimate assault on a hangover, a perfect storm if you will. All that’s missing is a cup of tea and some songs from Northern Britain.
I took the rum out for a date that night, opened her up with some coke and lime, twas simply sublime. That was, until Banksy2 turned to me and said “is that my rum?”
“No, found it in the gaff”
“Ye, you said you’d find it and give it back to me. Remember?”
“Nuh…oh….bollox”
A terribly hazy flashback of a terribly generous and well meaning moment. I return the rum. Fucking drunks and their good intentions.
