Hello. Denyer has very graciously given me permission to use his site as a trumpet for my ludicrous opinions, which many would see as a good move on his part. Most, anyway. Definitely a few. I think it's a good idea, at least. So I thought I'd start by giving you a taste of what my life is like. Just so we all know what we're about.
I got drunk last night. Nothing unusual there. Dan came down from Neath, plus it was an International day (I'm talking Rugby, people) so a few drinkies were always on the cards. I love the Autumn Internationals. November is my favourite month, when it's not raining. I love the crisp days, the gentle walks through the chill to a nice warm pub. There's a couple of months between the end of summer, when I lie panting like a frog on a hot iron, and the start of Christmas, when my blood pressure brushes the ceiling of what's healthy and I become a danger to myself and others, where I'm pretty much sorted. And Autumn always seems to go well for me; fun days out, exciting new relationships, interesting experiences.
And, in this case, freezing fog. It was seriously cold. Dan said that as soon as he crossed the bridge into England his car started beeping at him, warning that he was risking death from hypothermia if he so much as wound the window down. Still, the pub was warm, the Rugby was exciting, the pizza was very large and the Guinness flowed. A very drunk man gave me all of his weed because I bought him a drink, something I'm sure he regretted the next morning. |t was quite a lot, bless his cottons. Then the evening dribbled to it's inevitable conclusion as fatigue elbowed it's way around the house, sitting on people's laps and poking them into their beds. I woke up on the settee at 5:30 and staggered next door.
The next day - today, actually - I was feeling delicate, but nothing too unbearable. I shuffled around the house in that muzzy stoned-on-a-Sunday haze. A quick game of Metroid, I thought. I settled into my beanbag, flicked on the Gamecube and loaded the game. But after a second or two I realised that something was very wrong. A seeping wetness was happening around my arse. I leapt up and realised that I'd been sitting in a puddle. Now, the beanbag in question is a little unusual, firstly because it's enormous. Two people can sleep on it, or you can pile it up and use it as a pretty serviceable armchair. It takes up a ridiculously disproportionate amount of space in the room but it makes a fine gaming seat. It's also made of some kind of plasticky vinyl substance, which is why there was a puddle. On any other bean bag all the liquid would have been absorbed. Not mine, though. There was a puddle, and I'd sat right in it. "Wh-? Eh? What the fuck?" said I. I automatically sniffed my fingers in that way that people do when confronted by a mysterious substance. That gave the game away immediately.
It was piss.
A mystery party had pissed on my beanbag. I did a creditable impression of Little Dan (my goldfish) for a few seconds. My initial reaction was to check my pants to see if I has accidentally pissed myself and not noticed. I really hoped that I hadn't, and luckily my fears were unfounded as a quick scan of the area revealed that I had at least managed to retain bladder control. You're scraping the bottom of some metaphorical barrel or other when not having urinated into your own trousers causes you as much relief as it caused me then, but it was a very low moment. Questions thronged about my mind. I had been completely blind-sided by this development. Worse still, disturbing the piss had released an evil piss stench that wafted about the place. Unnoticeable before, it was now all pervading. It's quite easy for smells to develop strong associations in the human mind and I'm sure that from now on I'm going to associate that sharp ammonia stink with confusion, outrage and bewilderment. I washed my hands, changed my trousers and went looking for answers. Who? Why? When? Piss? Beanbag? What in the name of Stan Lee was going on? I burst into the front room, all ire and righteous indignation. A list of possible subjects was drawn up. Motive, opportunity and inclination towards that sort of thing were all taken into consideration. There was me and Lisa, obviously. It's our room, after all. Dan's name was mentioned, unsanitary Welsh bastard that he is. The notion that an animal, possibly a cat, had snuck in and done the dirty deed was put forward. I humped the beanbag into the garden to begin the cleaning process.
While I squirted dispiritedly at the bag with some kind of cleaning product I reviewed the options. First off, Lisa. Unlikely. Let's face it, girls are a far cleaner species than guys and the idea that Lisa had, even unknowingly, strained her lettuce out anywhere other than a prescribed location was frankly perverse. Next, Dan. Dan has some form where this sort of caper is concerned but he just hadn't had the opportunity. He'd been in the front room the whole time, never unsupervised, and he really hadn't been that drunk. As convenient a scapegoat as he may be, it couldn't have been him. Next in our list of suspects was a hypothetical stray cat. Now, there was a lot of piss but there wasn't that much. The bladder of a full grown human can hold a surprising amount of liquid, especially when that person has been drinking all afternoon. The relatively small amount of liquid, coupled with the particularly acrid smell, suggested an animal. A quick check of the cupboards and dark places of the house revealed nothing, however, and there wasn't anywhere for something to sneak in, all doors and windows having been locked due the aforementioned arctic weather. So mark as maybe but probably not.
After a while I realised that I was getting nowhere and went out to buy some Febreze. Only one suspect left, and it was a possibility I rather hoped would have been discounted by now. Your intrepid author. I wish I could say that me pissing onto a sort furnishing was a completely unprecedented occurrence, but I can't. I have a previous offence that should be taken into consideration. I certainly didn't remember doing it, and I still don't, but painful experience has taught me that just because you're too drunk to remember something doesn't preclude it having happened. And, unfortunately, it sounded like something I'd do.
It sounds like something I'd do. The six most depressing words in the English language, and familiar ones, at least to me. They signify embarrassment, shame, self-loathing. It means that an atrocity has been committed, by you, and even though you have absolutely no recollection of it you know, deep down, that you're guilty. Guilty of being a buffoon, of being crass and stupid and thoughtless. Again. And, worst of all, there's nothing particularly unusual about that.
All very depressing, I know, but there's nothing that'll spoil a person's mood quicker than the lingering smell of piss. My pleasant Sunday afternoon had been completely thrown off. To cheer myself up I bought dips, tortillas and War of the Worlds on DVD (I give it 3 stars. Add or subtract a star depending on your feelings about Tom Cruise). The beanbag is currently sat in the alley at the side of the house. It's future was already looking pretty shaky due it's space-intensive nature, and stinking like somebody's pissed on it won't do it any favours. Although I should probably point out that the beanbag actually belongs to Anthony and Fraisia, so ultimately it's fate rests with them. The Febreze did the trick at least. As far as my role in the whole sorry affair goes... well, there's no actual proof, is there? I'd say that there's at least some reasonable doubt, but I officially apologise if it was me. It was upsetting at the time but I'm now so comfortable with the situation that I can write gently amusing articles about it.
So that was Sunday. A very typical episode; intrigue, mystery, bodily fluids and, tellingly, it sort of tailed off at the end there. Future columns will hopefully cover a wide range of topics but, like I said at the start, it's best we all know who we're dealing with.
Details of my previous piss-based escapades can be gained by contacting Vyki Shaw, ex-girlfriend and occasional patron of Denyer's guestbook. I'm sure she'll be only too happy to oblige.