Monday, March 30th 2009.
I had heard that whiskey could help to alleviate the symptoms of a cold. In fact, I have read that if one drinks enough as to see double, then it is possible to sleep through a cold. However, I doubted the scientific basis of this and thought it undesirable for my father to come home to me, not asleep but in actuality passed out, drunken and lying next to an empty bottle of his booze. As such, I turned to my ever-eager ally, a bottle of Jameson, to get me through my very mild affliction, as I daren't face such a thing alone. I might have even experienced discomfort and who knows what else? Beside that, I am fairly certain that all the answers I need will be written at the bottom of some whiskey bottle or other, and one cannot find treasure if one does not dig. I poured out some of the bottle's wonderful content and proceeded to drink, realising that doing so was in the better interest of scientific discovery, and regularly deciding that what I'd had was insufficient to let me ignore the viral hordes inside my body until it became apparent that I'd had quite a bit too much more than the large whiskey I had originally intended to pursue.
Although I was still coughing and sneezing somewhat, I had stopped caring entirely and so decided to get my photograph taken for my provisional driving licence and go swimming, in line with my hopes to start making an effort in general.
When I got to the post office, I found that their photograph booth was no longer present and had to walk further up the high street. During my travels, I developed a most noticeable chubby, which led me to think nothing but "WHISKEY DICK IS FAILING ME", until the condition eventually subsided. For that period of time, though, it really was just screaming in my head, all I wanted to do was fall to my knees dramatically and shout the mystical phrase, to phone anyone on my mobile's contact list to inform them, but no. Discipline was with me. This is what separates the likes of me from the likes of you, I assume. Forward I went, to the supermarket, which, I was informed, had also removed its photo booth. Cunts. The swimming pool was my mission now, truly my raison d'être. Playing is for pleasure. I should have a swimming pool. However, on the way, I experienced the dehydrating effect of alcohol - first hand, no less - and had to stop for a couple of bottles of water. Fuckers cost me £1.04. What an absolute rip, all I got was a litre of the stuff, and it was the cheapest I could find. The cashier should have to give you a quick handy when they fuck you over like that. Saying that, he wasn't even pretty. A final, clumsy walk awaited me now. All of my walks are always clumsy.
Upon reaching my destination, I was greeted by a surly, middle-aged woman, from whom I was to purchase a pair of goggles to shield my precious eyes as well as a swim session. When I inquired about student prices, she informed me that I'd need an in-date NUS card and proof of address. When I showed her my student buspass and asked, "will this do?", all the while presenting a boyish smile, she was visibly unshaken by my excesses of charm and looks. World: I'm sick of your insane demands. When can I go into the supermarket and buy what I need with my good looks? The woman waited impatiently as I scrambled for change I didn't have because I had just spent it on water until I eventually decided I'd have to break a note. From here, onward bound! I went to my changing cubicle where I fumbled with my clothes, doing an encore at the locker, before moving on to the lavatory where I laughed at the trouble I was having both with tying the string on my trunks and not pissing all over my feet.
Once inside the pool, I realised that Harborne baths is a veritable cornucopia of swimming stereotypes. When I first walked in, I was abruptly introduced to the attractive, possibly Eastern European, couple practically fucking in the shallow end, while further into the pool, at greater depths, was the significantly less attractive couple, playfully splashing and pushing one another's heads under the water. There were the four overweight people who seemed to think that they were Olympians, swimming lengths garbed in cap and all, while using all but one of the pool's five lanes. Even the pool's overseeing lifeguard soon became, when off duty, the stereotypical handsome black man in better shape than I will ever be. I could tell he was a better swimmer than me just from the size of his dick in his Speedos. Before this metamorphosis, he watched with a bemused expression as I attempted to adjust my new goggles so as they excluded water as intended. After ten minutes' perplexed manipulation of the elastic headband, it became clear that, as I suspected, foam is not a suitably waterproof cupping material; the grumpy woman and the Speedo corporation had together failed me and I was to do something about it. This was, of course, until I realised that the nosepiece was adjustable and altering the length of this hidden enemy, this snake in the grass, would suit my needs.
I then began to swim lengths in the half-lane at the side as dictated by the aforementioned overweight Olympians, occasionally laughing to myself - rarely as the result of external stimuli - eventually to be joined for a short period of time by a blonde woman and later a more slimline brunette, creating what were some very awkward moments for me. I continued swimming for about 30-40 lengths until the onset stitch gained from the water I had just purchased developed into a feeling as if my abdomen were soon to burst through the right-hand side; my stomach had failed me. At this point I got out and had a shower, during which I had ingeniously planned to wash my hair and body, saving the time of later showering and drying, during which the attractive couple joined in, one on either side of me. This was uncomfortable, so I abruptly left the shower until I realised that I was still covered in soapiness and the mint and tea tree combination was far too tingly for me to put up with for the next half hour, at which point I returned, looking intently at the floor. Getting dry and dressed again took a fucking eternity, and re-packing my bag was no mean feat given the addition of one of the bottles of water and the goggles, but off I went back out into the lobby where I simultaneously counted my change and checked myself out. I was, of course, certifiably ravishing. When I went to the desk and asked Stropperella to combine the 50p change from returning my locker token and the £4.50 in my hand into a £5 note, she predictably refused. Beauty had failed me. To the bus stop I went, a defeated man.
I had heard that whiskey could help to alleviate the symptoms of a cold. In fact, I have read that if one drinks enough as to see double, then it is possible to sleep through a cold. However, I doubted the scientific basis of this and thought it undesirable for my father to come home to me, not asleep but in actuality passed out, drunken and lying next to an empty bottle of his booze. As such, I turned to my ever-eager ally, a bottle of Jameson, to get me through my very mild affliction, as I daren't face such a thing alone. I might have even experienced discomfort and who knows what else? Beside that, I am fairly certain that all the answers I need will be written at the bottom of some whiskey bottle or other, and one cannot find treasure if one does not dig. I poured out some of the bottle's wonderful content and proceeded to drink, realising that doing so was in the better interest of scientific discovery, and regularly deciding that what I'd had was insufficient to let me ignore the viral hordes inside my body until it became apparent that I'd had quite a bit too much more than the large whiskey I had originally intended to pursue.
Although I was still coughing and sneezing somewhat, I had stopped caring entirely and so decided to get my photograph taken for my provisional driving licence and go swimming, in line with my hopes to start making an effort in general.
When I got to the post office, I found that their photograph booth was no longer present and had to walk further up the high street. During my travels, I developed a most noticeable chubby, which led me to think nothing but "WHISKEY DICK IS FAILING ME", until the condition eventually subsided. For that period of time, though, it really was just screaming in my head, all I wanted to do was fall to my knees dramatically and shout the mystical phrase, to phone anyone on my mobile's contact list to inform them, but no. Discipline was with me. This is what separates the likes of me from the likes of you, I assume. Forward I went, to the supermarket, which, I was informed, had also removed its photo booth. Cunts. The swimming pool was my mission now, truly my raison d'être. Playing is for pleasure. I should have a swimming pool. However, on the way, I experienced the dehydrating effect of alcohol - first hand, no less - and had to stop for a couple of bottles of water. Fuckers cost me £1.04. What an absolute rip, all I got was a litre of the stuff, and it was the cheapest I could find. The cashier should have to give you a quick handy when they fuck you over like that. Saying that, he wasn't even pretty. A final, clumsy walk awaited me now. All of my walks are always clumsy.
Upon reaching my destination, I was greeted by a surly, middle-aged woman, from whom I was to purchase a pair of goggles to shield my precious eyes as well as a swim session. When I inquired about student prices, she informed me that I'd need an in-date NUS card and proof of address. When I showed her my student buspass and asked, "will this do?", all the while presenting a boyish smile, she was visibly unshaken by my excesses of charm and looks. World: I'm sick of your insane demands. When can I go into the supermarket and buy what I need with my good looks? The woman waited impatiently as I scrambled for change I didn't have because I had just spent it on water until I eventually decided I'd have to break a note. From here, onward bound! I went to my changing cubicle where I fumbled with my clothes, doing an encore at the locker, before moving on to the lavatory where I laughed at the trouble I was having both with tying the string on my trunks and not pissing all over my feet.
Once inside the pool, I realised that Harborne baths is a veritable cornucopia of swimming stereotypes. When I first walked in, I was abruptly introduced to the attractive, possibly Eastern European, couple practically fucking in the shallow end, while further into the pool, at greater depths, was the significantly less attractive couple, playfully splashing and pushing one another's heads under the water. There were the four overweight people who seemed to think that they were Olympians, swimming lengths garbed in cap and all, while using all but one of the pool's five lanes. Even the pool's overseeing lifeguard soon became, when off duty, the stereotypical handsome black man in better shape than I will ever be. I could tell he was a better swimmer than me just from the size of his dick in his Speedos. Before this metamorphosis, he watched with a bemused expression as I attempted to adjust my new goggles so as they excluded water as intended. After ten minutes' perplexed manipulation of the elastic headband, it became clear that, as I suspected, foam is not a suitably waterproof cupping material; the grumpy woman and the Speedo corporation had together failed me and I was to do something about it. This was, of course, until I realised that the nosepiece was adjustable and altering the length of this hidden enemy, this snake in the grass, would suit my needs.
I then began to swim lengths in the half-lane at the side as dictated by the aforementioned overweight Olympians, occasionally laughing to myself - rarely as the result of external stimuli - eventually to be joined for a short period of time by a blonde woman and later a more slimline brunette, creating what were some very awkward moments for me. I continued swimming for about 30-40 lengths until the onset stitch gained from the water I had just purchased developed into a feeling as if my abdomen were soon to burst through the right-hand side; my stomach had failed me. At this point I got out and had a shower, during which I had ingeniously planned to wash my hair and body, saving the time of later showering and drying, during which the attractive couple joined in, one on either side of me. This was uncomfortable, so I abruptly left the shower until I realised that I was still covered in soapiness and the mint and tea tree combination was far too tingly for me to put up with for the next half hour, at which point I returned, looking intently at the floor. Getting dry and dressed again took a fucking eternity, and re-packing my bag was no mean feat given the addition of one of the bottles of water and the goggles, but off I went back out into the lobby where I simultaneously counted my change and checked myself out. I was, of course, certifiably ravishing. When I went to the desk and asked Stropperella to combine the 50p change from returning my locker token and the £4.50 in my hand into a £5 note, she predictably refused. Beauty had failed me. To the bus stop I went, a defeated man.
