"I never made the first team, just made the first team laugh”
It’s Tuesday evening. I sit rather uncomfortably on my bed, made all the more uncomfortable by my meandering hangover and belly full of Chicken Biryani. Why, I know not, the release, I guess, (writing?).
“Mainstream, to control. But we cannot stop them.”
So last night, after the monsoon subsided to mere lightning and thunder, we went out with work for the fourth time. Our colleagues and now friends are great drinkers. It transpired today that I had forgotten a whole chunk of two hours in which no-one will tell me what I did or said. Sweet familiarity.
Tequila was had. Long Island Iced Tea was had. Kingfisher in vast quantities was had. I maintained my perfect 0% success record of asking a girl to dance (she was Indian, so that’s not really allowed, I guess, will be my excuse I think. Ha! Sweet lies).
I ended the night clinging onto the back of a motorbike flying around Necklace Road, so called because it hangs around the great Hussain Sagar lake as such. We stopped and watched people place their Ganesh figures into the water. It’s his festival, don’t you know. He is the god of well-being and the remover of obstacles I think. Indian festivals are incredible feasts of noise and colour and quite random things. Ganesh has an elephant head and quite a few arms and at the moment EVERY street corner has their own figurine/statue of him. At some point last night I was taken to the largest one in Hyderabad, apparently. Off my face, staring up at this thirty metre high pink elephantine monolith in the middle of the night was a little surreal.
Then I got home and watched Andy Murray until 4:30am. Why, I don’t know. I don’t even like him. If more articulate I could probably argue a pretty strong case for him being an arrogant tosspot. I am not patriotic. He’s Scottish anyway. But something about his performance against Nadal had me hooked. Not usually a huge fan of tennis, it was fascinating to see the tactics of Murray unravel this mighty, seemingly invincible, champion. In the same way, even heavily intoxicated and head drooping, it was painful to watch Murray himself get destroyed by not so much tactics, more sheer ability. It was Wolves 0-5 Chelsea, Autumn 2003. Delicate planning and preparation torn to shreds by a simple gulf in class.
But then it is only tennis. It is nothing.
Apologies for the lack of inspiration in this post. Actually, no. No fucking apologies. I shouldn’t have told anyone anyway (now 5 poor souls. Kill me) so fuck if I’m going to start apologising to ghosts.
Sam Vokes scored the winner for Wales with six minutes left against Azerbaijan.
Wayne Hennessey kept a clean sheet.
Andy Keogh sat on the bench in Georgia for Ireland.
Michael Kightly came on for the England U21s for 5 minutes against Portugal.
Richard Stearman was on the bench.
Sylvain Ebanks-Blake was in the squad.
Revel in monotony. Hangover:end.
“I never really knew the way she lived her life
I tried a couple of numbers and they never called back
I didn’t know her family or friends at all
With no-one to call
Summer turned into fall
I gave up…”
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