This Is The Goo I've Got

I don’t consider myself to be worldly-wise.

I haven’t seen the world. Yet.

I haven’t travelled all over, and experienced the diversity that only a true ramblin’ man could.

But I think I’ve had first hand experience of some quite varied environments within the United Kingdom. I’ve lived in cities, and I’ve lived in villages, and a spectrum in between.

Tonight, 2:05am, I walked home from the train station amidst the sodium lights and the shrill birdsong, both of which are still filtering in through my open balcony doors. And I felt this feeling of unity, like the minor details of my life so far had been distilled and mixed into a small basin, and were being fed to me there and then.

I realise now that I have achieved so much more in 2002 than I dreamed possible. I am in a fantastic situation right now, and this is a great place to be attacking the remainder of my life from. Let’s hope that I don’t fuck it up.

Some rewinding may be in order.

I didn’t steal the broken headrest from the train tonight.

Rewind.

I was sat on the return train tonight, amidst pissheads and lager louts who were staggering up the aisles and laughing the most despicable laughs imaginable. A broken headrest was opposite me, laid on the seat, inviting me to use it as a weapon, so that I may destroy the form of this twat in a beanie hat who was laughing like a bad comedian.

Rewind.

The Gods were smiling on me tonight. After wandering the streets of Wimbledon for 45 minutes, I was sure that I was doomed to spend the next six hours trapsing the highways and byways, waiting for the public transport to restart in the morning so that I may be on my merry way. I had missed the train that I was aiming for, by a long shot. It was long gone, and I couldn’t see a resolution.

I continued to walk. After all, what else is there? I would walk all night, if necessary. It would be a learning experience, that would build me as a man. I’ve walked all night before, and if necessary I would walk all night again.

However, I broke the crest of a hill and was warmed by the glow of Wimbledon station. The grail. The target. If only I had happened upon it earlier.

I wandered inside, more out of curiosity than any belief that it would be fulfilling. I sauntered to my regular platform. Hark, what did I see? A train. But not just any train.

A train that could take me home.

Rewind.

I left the party on foot at about half past midnight. I had a train to catch. As long as things went according to plan, I could be home in an hour. 1:30am. A quite respectable time.

The party was very enjoyable actually. It was attended by a dozen rather likeable people, with only a small number being too drunk to appreciate it. The wine was plentiful, the music was variable, and the conversation was of a fine calibre. I was having a good night, amongst like-minded individuals.

Dare I say it, probably the best New Years’ Eve on record.

And now, to my readership. I’d like to wish a lot of love to you all. Over this coming year there will be moments of greatness, and moments of not-so-greatness. It’s inevitable. But I’ll look after you in any way that I can.

Adieu. Speak to you tomorrow.

I need to learn to be more aggressive.

Case in point. Queueing to pay for some sandwiches.

It’s one of those shops where there is one long queue, and when you get to the front you get filtered off to an individual checkout, à la Post Offices.

Checkout 2 appears to be vacated. I walk over to checkout 2. As I get close, it becomes apparent that there are still some goods piled up there. Simultaneously, two things happen: the woman at the checkout says “I’m still serving someone”; I work out that she is still serving someone, who has evidently just popped off because they forgot to pick up their Preparation H or their furry nipple warmers.

So what do I do?

I apologise.

What the hell for, I hear you cry. I should have sniffed the air with a soupçon of disgust, or growled fearfully, or even expressed my displeasure using the words and constructions provided for me by the English language.

But no-o-o. I apologised. Profusely. Twice. With a little curtsey at the end.

I’m going to stop apologising for things. I’m going to accept that I am actually within my rights to blame other people for being gits, and act accordingly by sticking my neck out and being offensive in public, instead of skulking off back to this here website and hiding behind my anonymosity.

I’m low. I’m pondlife. But no more. As of today, I’m a gobby bastard.

Experimentally, of course.

“Pete, what are you doing for dinner”

No plans.

“Do you fancy being cooked for?”

Who by?

“The girls.”

(Pause) Uh… what girls?

“The girls at your house.”

There are girls at my house?

(Rapturous chuckling envelopes the office)

Sounds promising.