In a pub up near Cambridge on Sunday with a hangover that ranked about a seven on the Bukowski scale, my hands shaking so badly I could barely bring my life-giving pint to my lips, trying to watch the West Ham–Man U match, my afternoon was well and truly fucked by a horde of meaty small-town chavs and their clonelike offspring, the sort who think that saying something AT THE TOP OF YOUR FUCKING LUNGS makes it witty, and if you don’t get a universal laugh the first time, FUCKING SAY IT AGAIN, MATE!
Cunts.
And as if singing “High ho, high ho, it’s off to work we go” repeatedly every time one of them went to the bar (???) wasn’t bad enough, it turned out they were Man U supporters. Oh huzzah. So when West Ham won – and let’s face it, this was a minor miracle – and I had the audacity to cheer, I got a barrage of “Fuck you! You’re still third from bottom!” directed at me. Yeah? Well your team just got beat by the third from bottom.
Cunts.
I’m now counting down the seconds until Friday, when I leave this all behind and fly to beautiful Montpellier. I’m so uninterested in my work that I might as well not be here: in fact, I’m consistently surprised that people can even see me. “What do you mean you want me to issue a document? Isn’t it obvious that I am not here?”
Cunts.
I’ll be gone for over two weeks, so in case I don’t get a chance to update again before I leave, have a happy Christmas and New Years and all the rest of it.
Cunts.