Tonight, I went to the pub with the comics mob, which was a bloody good laugh. I also bought another bottle of whisky, which I am looking forward to trying, when I finish one of the many fine malts in my home. Tonight was a good night.
Well, up to a point.
On the tube home, some bloke threw up all over me. Specifically, over the back of my several hundred pound worth of leather coat, and my rather nice leather bag. That man, boys and girls, is a shitehawk. He is a shitehawk, because having done that (and splattered some poor girl in the process, I should add) he proceeded to slump into a seat, pass out, and then stir only to leap from the train at Balham, without offering to pay for the cleaning, either for me, or, more importantly, the nice girl whose white coat (and hair) he had splattered with his watermelon-coloured vom. As I say, he was a complete shitehawk.
After the last fortnight, if something very good doesn’t happen to me very soon, I’m going to start hurting people. You’ve all be warned.
A shitehawk, I tell you.