A Brief Word on the Radar

Now, you see, it's only to be expected, come the end of the month there will be a system in place and the game can be played in earnest. I shall have to think about last week as a trial run, and try to get through the next week as best I can. A lot of the problem is that my main mucker chose to suddenly drop his life and bugger off into hiding for a few reasons, some wise to follow. Others clearly not, but...
It is always important to have likeminded souls about as everybody takes their turn in the chair, knowing they will be standing in need soon. This is one of the laws of continuous stupefaction that I may list soon during the next dry spell.
For now, though, I will return to the days when all this just came naturally. The main thought that occurs when getting nostalgic for the times I can barely be sure happened is actually how I managed to function at all during some pretty heavy sessions. Yet I always seemed to wake, however painfully, in my own bed. Well, when I say always... A quick run through of alternative waking points include a bench at Penge railway station and under a tarpaulin in Mill Hill, several random bushes and a police cell (miraculously just the once). All these resting places have their own story but it would be stretching the memory to recount too much of them. This is not unusual in the world of drunkeness and only serves to punctuate the many thousands of times a drunk will stagger home unerringly from even the furthest boozer. It used to be a habit of mine to miss the last train from Charing X on a saturday night when I was living in Lewisham and having to walk from the west end, battered as fuck, down the Old Kent Road, through New Cross and home without getting mugged, lost or asleep in a back garden. Why the hell I even bothered going out for a drink in the west end amazes me now though I WAS young and girls were probably involved. I do remember once pawning my entire James Bond video collection just for a night out cos two gorgeous french girls were going to be there. 17 fucking quid! waste of time but I still went. Had to bunk the train for a start, luckily there was a huge crowd so I could doctor the round buying in my favour (a technique that forms the basis of another law but be patient, dear reader). Somehow I never got to spend much time with the angels of France but ended up chatting with some Finnish girls. Unfortunately my fanny magnet friend was with me so I was assigned the hideous one, but undeterred, I ploughed on. Now, I always find with foreign girls abroad that opening with showing an interest in their country is the best way. The slight pull of homesickness will make them more receptive to a bit of affection shown. Not with Igorina though. I could have chatted eloquently about Hakkinen, Makkkkinenen and Litmanenenen but it's never advisable to use sport as a way into a girls heart. So I professed a quite genuine love for the films of Aki Kaurismaki and was beaten over the head with my poor pronunciation followed by a diatribe about how shabbily I was dressed. Nice.
I've always been scruffy, as I am vaguely alternative in my tastes and never been shy of retro shops and Oxfam but maybe when you are in the west end people expect more than tatty chic. Anyway, you see, the budget rarely stretched... and I had them vids to get out of hock.
So, the long lonely walk home begins, worse for wear and alone again. I must remember why I am trying to relive these times again...