Drink! Feck! Arse!

Alternative titles for this entry:
* Weapon of Self Destruction
* Poisoning Yourself for Fun
* Why Did I Do That?

No updates for the last few days, partly because I was drunk for a lot of it. And when I wasn't drunk, I was sleeping it off. And when I wasn't sleeping it off, I had a hangover. And when I'd got over the hangover I was busy. And when I'd finshed being busy, I was getting drunk again. And when I'd done that, I was sleeping it off.

Wednesday

A night of pointless party politics, followed by exaggeratedly egregious ebriosity leading to decidedly drunken debauchery. I would say it's like being a teenager again, except I never did any of that in my teens.

Thursday

One of my tiny claims to fame is that I once sold a Socialist Worker to Mark Steel. On thursday I improved on that by eating a curry with him. Him and 24 other comrades.

I'd been given a spare ticket to see him onstage. His act at the moment is half lively lecture on the French Revolution, half observational stand up routine. Underneath both is an understated but actually very sophiticated understanding of world politics. But even considered just as a commedian he's impressively professional.

After we took him to our communal communist curry, he spent the next 7 hours doing deep historical materialist analysis with Max and John M at John's house. While I found my natural lower level of discourse with other comrades.

Eddie C is a ex-soldier with an intermittant bipolar disorder. He can drink alchohol like a fish, charm women like Cassanova, and lucidly debate politics while tanked up on enough vodka and antipsychotic medication to tranquilise an elephant. A cuddly blond teddybear. A hellraising gentle giant.

He's also a writer of very sensitive love songs, looking for a musician/producer to help him record them. So...we have a loose plan for collaboration.

After the curry, Eddie, myself, Lee S and Lee's sort-of-maybe-more-or-less girlfriend Jenny spent 8 hours at Eddie's flat, between us putting away three litres of inordinately cheap vodka, dischordantly howling along to the greatest hits of ELO, and falling over in tangled giggly heaps.

I remember some smoochy dancing, lots of cuddles in various permutations...and there was a buttock slapping contest. And I sucked someone's feet.

Friday

12 hours later I was more or less recovered, editing the play for Max - because it's quicker for me to follow his notes than to teach him how to wordprocess - and helping out John with details of atomic theory for a short book he's writing on the marxian dialectic to be translated for publication in Egypt.

Saturday

There may be moderate quantities of alchohol tonight, but no chance of fornication. Because it'll be spent with Simon M, his computer and his absolutely enormous TV showing Dr Who.

It makes a twisted kind of sense that, after getting intimate with a lot of straight men this week, my gay friend should be off limits.