When I got home (drunk) last night, after a very pleasant night out with davebushe at a “Paddy Punk Party” – three celtic-punk acts on the same bill – Warbelfly (good), The Mahones (enjoyable enough, but my least favourite of the three) and Neck (storming, as always, although Dave’s right, the frontman really does try a bit too hard with the Oirishness), I sat down and I wrote a drunk, bitter and self-pitying whinge.
Thankfully, I’m a bright sort of chap, and didn’t hit post. You don’t need that species of crap on your friends page. But, now sober and in a better mood, I’ll revisit some of it here, and you’ll just have to believe me when I say that this is mostly said in tones of wry amusement with a smile on my face, and not tedious self-pity.
You may recall that earlier in the year, I looked up my chinese horrorscope for this year, and discovered that I was due for, if not the best year of my life, then certainly the best I’m likely to see this decade.
So far this year, I have been dumped, thrown up on, had my wallet (and a large sum of money) nicked and been made jobless twice. If this year can get worse, it’s going to involve serious illness, or somebody dying. If either of these things happen, I’m going to start hurting people at random, on the basis that you’re all in the universe, and therefore complicit.
Astrology is manifestly a load of old toss. If you seriously believe in it, I suggest you tip your head on one side, and pour bleach in your ear, as there’s clearly crap in your brain.
And in similar tones of amusment, I note that I probably brought this all on myself. Back at the start of the year, I asked for surprises. Apparently, the world judges a good kicking to be enough of a surprise. I remain unconvinced. Still, next year, I shall remember to be specific, and ask for nice surprises.
Actually, bollocks to waiting. I want my nice surprises now, by fuck. Where are my nice surprises?