Right now, I'm rebelling as much as I can against the fact that I have to leave my beautiful warm flat in the morning and sit in an office sucking corporate dick for eight hours. I'm refusing to iron my clothes. I'm refusing to sort my hair out. I'm sitting here watching Naked Gun (on mute - it's funnier) and after that I'll watch The Royle Family and then I might go window shopping on the American Apparel website. I'll pretend I'm rich and put loads of stuff in my basket and then, just as they're putting out a virtual hand to grab my card, I'll shut the browser window! Ha! That'll teach those greedy capitalist bastards!
RIP Norman Beaton.
Then in the evening I went out with three friends and we travelled around the metropolis gatecrashing parties. Like a party in a student house where everyone was in fancy dress that started with the letter B. One girl dressed as a bakewell tart. And another party in some well-to-do converted industrial estate where a few people gave us dirty looks like that scene in Weird Science when those alien-looking biker motherfuckers bumrush the show. After that we went to Gullyver at Plastic People where it kind of felt like we were gatecrashers because we all turned up drunk at 3am and everyone was all danced out and ready to go home. I danced for only 15 minutes but it was the best 15 minutes of my life. Vodka makes you feel like every 15 minutes is the best 15 minutes of your life.
But when you sober up the next morning and feel that timebomb ticking away, signalling the start of a new working week looming ever closer, the whole thing just strikes you as being a really unfair balance. Why can't I spend five days gatecrashing parties and two days sucking corporate dick? Why does it have to be the other way round?
Answers on a postcard please.