- Written by Peter Burnett Peter Burnett
It is Tuesday today, I have done a little writing, but not as much as I should as I am recovering from a four day binge .... exhuasted. I have been to the baker's shop and secured two scones a caramel slice and a French cake, and I'll eat them all with tea at about 5 o’clock .... it's the last turd on the hangover, things'll turn up after a feed like that.
When not with each other, my pal Donald and I pace through the town looking for interesting editions of Penguins, and today I found a most unusual copy of DEMIAN by Herman Hesse, which I had to stuff up my jumper because I'd spent all my money on cakes. I ran off.
Back at home, I've started reading it, I'm panting lightly over the page .... soon I'll be out drinking again with Donald, he'll come round and inspect it.
The Deens turned up, absolutely drunk, incapable, falling with laughter. He'd been binging at his golf club. He wanted to watch BULLSEYE, which he did, while drinking a bottle of cider. After that, he was fit for very little. I played him a tune on my guitar, he hugged me for ages and then fell asleep on the sofa. L came round and we tried to revive him .... once he was up, about 9 in the evening, we put him in her car and drove him to his girlfriend's mother's house, where we left him. Last seen, standing grinning in Forest Avenue, a pair of dark glasses on his eyes, a can of lager in his hand.
I'm not sure what it is, I feel crap and I see all these folks out jogging, gorgeous folks .... I scuttle on out of their paths, I'm scum! Why do they not drink? What's so great about their lives that they don't want to obliterate it, that's what I'd like to know. It occurred to me recently that my two closest friends may be largely unknown to me .... whenever I see them, I meet their sober selves for a maximum time of one and a half hours, then I meet their inebriated alter egoes for up to a further eight hours. This is a rule WITHOUT exception, and it applies in reverse too ....I often feel a different person when they're not about. I suppose people that go jogging have the advantage of knowing what their companions are really like .... or, as I suspect, what they are NOT really like, in vino veritas and all that.
Still, as we stumble home, me and my drunken pals, we mock every sober bed .... they drank and made merry for a few student years, then crawled into their shells and became serious minded men and women in service of the state - indolence! - worthy young people, clinging to the memory of drink, as if it was the memory of a blessed paradise.
Instead, me and my kind live in an orgasm of self-destruction - that's a phrase from Hesse - he says of his youth,
"And while I often amused and shocked my friends with outrageous cynicism at beer-stained tables, in my inmost heart I was in awe of everything I scoffed at and lay inwardly weeping on my knees before my soul, my past, my mother and God."
How about that man?