Right so I'm writing about the week. 7 whole days. This will probably be a long post, and just to forewarn you, dear readers who don't exist, it is probably the least interesting summary of a seven day period since Craig David put pen to paper to tell us about how much creepy, overly emotional sex he was, presumably, getting.
Yeah, you wouldn't turn that down would you? Especially not after a couple drinks. Although, Craig only states that he took her for 'one drink on Tuesday,' before making love to her on Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday and Sunday. Quite what Craig put in that 'one drink,' despite looking increasingly suspicious, I will not speculate on, as I imagine a relatively successful and almost popular pop singer of the early naughties could still probably afford better lawers than I can.
Anyway, sorry I got off topic. We're talking about my week. Well I guess drinks are actually a pretty good place to start. Friday night was my first 'work night out.' Not just with my current workmates, I mean ever. It had been planned for weeks, and now it was time for it to happen. Despite living eight miles away from the town I decided to book a room at the travelodge there, this was booked under the pretence of 'helping out one of the lads who lives in Hartlepool and can't get home otherwise.' The actual reason for the booking, as you can probably guess, was more to do with the realisation that under no circumstances could I ever let my poor mother see me in the state I intended to get into on this night.
Above: The state I intended to get into on this night out.
Yeah so the travelodge was booked, work was finished and I was heading through town with Alex. We caught a film (The Inbetweeners) and then went to get a meal together. This all sounds very lovely, but just to make sure you're painting the correct image in your head and my words aren't misleading you, Alex is a boy. Well, to be honest Alex is a man. He's a whole foot taller than me. This was a man date. And I was the bitch.
We had some food and a few drinks before heading back to the room. He stripped for a shower and had a poo with the bathroom door open. The room was full of mirrors so there was no easy way to avoid staring at his nakedness. There was only one was this was going to end. I remembered I was the bitch and gulped. Imagining the burning shame between my cheeks.
Above: The burning shame between my cheeks.
Luckily, my hyperbolic, completely unfounded fear of gay rape was, as I just said, unfounded (I should really plan what I write out to avoid this repetition). We showered, not together, remember the non-gay rape I just mentioned twice, and headed back down to the pub.
There were seven people there.
Seven.
That's the number of dwarves who lived in that house with Snow White. At no point in that film do any of them look uncomfortable (except from a few uncomfortable looks between Doc and Grumpy as they try to decide whether Snow White's constant kissing of Dopey is, as they hope, mere pleasantries or if it is some form of molestation).
Above: Snow White Deleted Scene VII - The shattered aftermath of Dwarf home life as Dopey breaks down and reveals where Snow White touched him.
Seven people can, as Disney shows, live in a house together and work together and be best pals. How the hell was I meant to conjure up the decadent night I had been planning with seven people? There had been drop-outs all over the place. Friends from Sunderland couldn't make it due to work/family reasons/the weather etc, some people from work couldn't make it due to family reasons/the weather/the fact their boyfriend was threatening to kick me all over if they came out with me... Just the usual really.
I thought that the night was probably going to turn out shit. Then I remembered a fundamental fact. A fact I should have mentioned earlier.
I was wearing a fucking suit.
Refusing to let the night get away from me, I made my way to the nearest cash point and withdrew £100. If people were insistant on dropping out then I would simply have to drink enough for everybody. This was a dangerous plan. I began my night by spending around £40 on cocktails in the first bar. All vodka based.
I can not drink vodka.
At all.
You see that little Twitter thing on the side of my blog? Click it. Then find @IBlameFashion - Tweet her these words, 'What happens when Chris Hunt drinks a lot of vodka'
Go on, ask her. I'll wait.
Yeah, it really is that bad.
Anyway,storming ever hopefully onwards I began to drink vodka and jagermeister in, what I can only describe as, dangerous amounts. I don't really remember much of the night to be honest with you. I remember being in Pulse, and a Jesus looking fellow dancing with Lauren. He then saw me, proceded to ignore Lauren, come over to me and, without saying a word, try to kiss me.
Just for reference here, Lauren is the attractive girl on the left. I am the chubby fellow in the middle.
Above: Me being a pimp, regardless of what Simone says.
I managed to make my escape from this fellow, and stumbled off to another bar. After this I'm afraid it all goes blank. I did wake up to discover that I had spent the last portion of the night getting into a girl I work with, so I guess drunk me does have a victory every now and again but still.
In retrospect, I was still smashed until around Saturday evening. That £100 I took out? I spent it all. You know what else I did, I bought Champagne. £40 on one drink. Why? I mean seriously why? I'm not just even repeating that question for literary effect, I honestly want somebody to tell me why?
Anyway now that night is out the way I can get into the serious stuff. I did nothing on the weekend. That's becoming a bit of a recurring theme. I have a new job now so I work each weekday, 11 till 8 so obviously my social time during the week is limited. I am rich though. I just have nowhere to spend it. The same is going to happen this weekend. Nobody I know is interested in going out tomorrow night, nobody is interested in making plans for Saturday either. I'm just going to spend another weekend sitting about my room. There is only so much porn a guy can use to get him through boredom. Have you ever passed the 7 in one day mark? It just hurts after that. Really hurts.
Above: A picture for 'hose chafe damage' - Use your imagination.
So I'll be having another weekend by myself before heading back to work. Don't let that last sentence mislead you, I don't hate where I work. Actually, I love it. I work in a call centre as a customer advisor. Basically, you know when something goes wrong and you phone up the company, and some chirpy little voice answers ready to try and help you out, but you're too blinded by rage to work out that this person is just an employee and has had absolutely no say in why the thing that has happened to you to make everything so bad has happened and just start screaming at them? Yeah that's me. Obviously, I don't think I can mention who I work for in my blog because if they read it they may not like me writing about it and I could find myself sacked.
Yeah, I enjoy the shit out of my job. I spend my time having a crack on with customers down the phone. The problem is though, well, what some people have said is a problem, is that I get too involved in it all. I had an old lady yesterday who could not cash a cheque we had sent her, the bank wouldn't do it, I looked on her account and she was over 70, arthritic and with poor eyesight. She said she needed the £80 refund for new spectacles. The only information I could give her was to go back to the bank and try and cash it again, this requires a taxi trip into Kidderminster for her, and another one home. I knew that the bank would not cash it again, but it was the only advice I could give. She was getting herself worked up and worried about it. That stayed with last night, and I've been thinking about it tonight too, to be honest. She was meant to call back, but never did. I wonder if she got her money?
Logic tells me she didn't, but I'm going to choose to believe she did. Ignoring all logic to remain cheerful is something I do well.
Talking about problems I have fixed, I finally got round to saving my baby hamster from his weeks of turmoil and bullying.
This is my baby hamster, Swarley.
Above: Swarley. I used my awesome photo editing skills to highlight how innocent he is.
Swarley, bless him, has been getting his arse kicked. Constantly, by his dad who I, foolishly, forced him to live with. I had to split Swarley's father and mother up because they kept making babies at a rate where I couldn't look after them. I had to isolate them before I hate a whole incestuous, cannibalistic shitstorm on my hands. I can deal with a lot of things but watching creatures I'm responsible for eating or fucking their sisters is not one of them.
I seperated the parents, Swarley's dad (Hector) and his mother (Achilles... Yes Achilles) into different cages. The problem was, I only had two cages, so Swarley needed to live with one of his parents. There was no court case or custody battle, I placed Swarley with Hector, his dad. I figured if I put him with his mother he would simply sleep with her, then eat the incestuous, cursed, unholy babies. I'd just stopped that whole hoo-ha so I wasn't letting it happen again. Plus, living with his dad, I thought, would toughen him up. He could teach him how to chop wood, talk to girls, even play sports!
Above: What I thought would happen.
What I didn't factor into my equation is that hamsters, while not performing the role of helpful, teaching fathers due to not being human can still have many of the negative human pitfalls. I think Hector became depressed from being seperated from Achilles, I noticed he became less active, I would check on him and you could just tell he wasn't in a good state, I'd catch him with five o clock stubble, wearing the same clothes as two days ago and I'm sure at one point I caught him drunk at 9am in the morning. I think he began to blame Swarley for the disintegration of his happy hamster union with Achilles. He began to attack Swarley from time to time.
Above: What actually happened
Luckily, I managed to get paid before this escalated into a full on turf war between the two, and got Swarley his own cage. This is the end of the fighting and injuries I thought. Unfortunately, Swarley is, what some people would accurately describe as, mentally retarded. Now whether this is the cause of, or a result of, his father's constant rejection is up for debate. But Swarley has continued to hurt himself in ever increasing ways. His latest hobby is climbing the wire of his cage to the very top, which is about a foot, so in hamster terms, about the size of a house, and then letting himself drop all the way to the floor.
Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!
I have him added padding to make sure he was safe, only to later discover he would move the padding, and purposefully falling onto harder ground. I think he blames himself for his parent's divorce and the abuse. Classic abused child syndrome. I don't know what to do about it.
So, anyway. I'm rambling now, and despite my blog's title that's not something I'm fond of doing so I will leave you all be safe in the knowledge of knowing the past week of my life has been drunken revellery, attempting to help an 80 year old woman buy new spectacles, and a suicidal hamster from a broken home.
Diverse or what?
