In For A Penny

The receptionist doesn't know it, but there's a trickle of piss running down my trouser leg. I'm lucky it's raining outside — if it reaches the floor, having first seeped through my shoes, I've got an alibi. Until the smell hits his nostrils, anyway. I sign the piece of paper and need him to hand over my room key before the trickle becomes a torrent. I don't want it to look strange that I'm heading straight back outside, so I tell him I'm going for a ciggie. I'd clocked the room number already and it just wasn't close enough.

I think I get away with it.

I head out into the rain, find a secluded corner of the car park, and piss into a hedge. Apparently I have a lot more to give. Mid-stream, some lights reflect off the wet leaves around me. It's the Old Bill.

Copper: Are you okay there, sir? Me: No. Copper: What seems to be the problem?

This is when he clocks the MAGA hat and the wristband, I think.

Me: Bill Gates and the Lizard people are going to enslave us all and I don't know if I can stop it.

Whatever they'd expected me to say, it wasn't that. I hadn't noticed Copper 2 in the passenger seat, but they exchange a look and seem to reach a mutual decision.

Copper: You have a good night, sir.

They fuck off bastard quick.

From the waist up I'm drenched in rain. From the waist down I'm drenched in piss. In for a penny, I think, and take a shite in my boxers while I'm at it. I squelch my way to the main road, lie down in front of an oncoming truck, and get the first line of Candle in the Wind out of my lungs before the cunt kills me.

Also on Mental Ramblings: Double Tap

Dear Rishi Sunak

Chances of me voting for you are near zero, but to qualify that the chances of me voting for any politician is about the same. My preference would be for you all to do the decent thing and immolate yourselves in front of the Houses of Parliament and a new government be appointed. Not by means of election, the new government will consist of people who have never shown an interest before, plucked from the general public. We can't risk any chancers like you getting in again can we?

Anyway, to the point of this letter. I was gnawing on a KFC Hot Wing earlier and I started to wonder about longest and shortest days and such, and in turn which would be the longest and shortest Chicken Tuesday of the year. I managed to work out that the first Chicken Tuesday of the year was simultaneously the longest and the shortest but after that I was stumped, or drumsticked maybe! Anyway, if you show the courtesy of getting back to me on this I will show likewise by considering voting for you at the next election. By answering me you will demonstrate that you are a better man than the Dalai Lama, Donald Trump (Jr and Sr), that Zelenskyy slice and Nicola Sturgeon. You could argue that the Ukrainian President has bigger fish to fry but if he can create time to cuddle up to Kay Burley he can fucking well answer me can't he?

PS I bumped into Jeremy Corbyn once on the way to get Beef Monster Munch from my local shop. They didn't have any. Jeremy said if I voted for him he'd ensure that every shop that could be expected to offer Beef Monster Munch would be legally obliged to do so if he became PM. He also offered to piss up my arse if I promised to tick his box, as it were. Obviously that offer was too good to turn down and what separates him from the likes of you and your Tory government. He not only delivered on the arse pissing front but he also sourced a box full of Beef Monster Munch for me and I know for a fact that he didn't claim it on expenses. Joke was on him though, he didn't have to piss up my arse at all, I was gonna vote labour anyway!

Dry Swizzman

I thought you were a bit of a cunt at first, and to be fair you probably were. You probably (definitely!) thought I was one too. Wasn't that long though before you were lending me a hundred notes because my attempt at blackjack bonus abuse had gone awry a week before payday. Will never forget that. I never truly got to grips with your agoraphobia, certainly it wasn't a form of the condition I was familiar with. Am I a doctor though? No.

You were able to leave the house alright, no drama there, but any mention of leaving town was met with ridicule, as if some invisible force field had been put in place just to stop you. As a result you had to stay put while your fellow Liverpool fans headed up to Scouseland for the Champions League Final v AC, a next best option when getting tickets to the final proved impossible.

So we ended up in the usual haunt, and Liverpool were getting murdered, and myself and an Evertonian felt sorry for you. We know what happened next of course, practically the only time I cheered them lot for anything. It was a good night though, one of many in that place. Many a Saturday night would end up there, black aftershocks to finish - fucking hell. Then on to the chicken shop where we'd order all of the chicken they had left, that never got old.

We'd polish that off with the last few cans at your place. Watch a film or hop the music channels in the hope of catching something that wasn't shit. Music wise that was the time of Lostprophets - Rooftops mainly - fucking hell once more! Film wise it was Dude Where's My Car?, a film loosely based on a line from The Big Lebowski, and an awesome one at that. I always thought someone should take it further and make a film based on a line from Dude Where's My Car? Sweet, what's mine say? maybe, or AND THEN? perhaps. Fuck it I might have to do it myself.

Your favourite line:

- I wanna go on that ride daddy

- Me too son, me too!

RIP mate.

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