E. M. Esq.

I am seven kinds of wrecked today, so this kind of goes nowhere. It’s my Cormac McCarthy post.

The sweaty ginger apocalypse that is A Futurist Theatre played Doran’s last night and as per usual they raised rooves, wrecked gaffs and mixed metaphors at a rate of knots per hour. Since I’m friends with the band I’d like to be able to say that they’re rubbish, thus proving the Stalinesque ruthlessness of my critical intellect, but they trip me up by being consistently awesome. It’s starting to give me a complex.

Following a night swanning around my flat with a pack of cigarettes shoved up my sleeve, I had planned to blow everyone’s mind and James Dean the motherfucker. Unfortunately, my level of drunken bombast had blinded me to the worrying level of translucency of my one and only white tshirt. James Dean not being famous for subtly flashing his nipples at strangers, a post-work jaunt to River Island was necessitated.

By the ancient and unwrit rules of men’s fashion there was only propely decent shirt there, and that only available in extra small. Now, I’m prepared to call myself a svelte guy – I’m aware of the concept of muscles, but they’re not something I’ve ever got the hang of – so I reckoned I could pull it off. And it worked out all right, although things like eating, drinking, walking, dancing, breathing, thinking and so on were a little trickier than usual.

Plus, on an unrelated note, I accidentally kneed a guy in the mouth. Good times all round.