The Parents Are Away Diaries - Part Two

Part one here.

I woke on Saturday, slumped in an armchair in my living room. My laptop was still on. My mouth was made of carpet. My mind was made of cotton wool. My ‘sent items’ on my phone was full of messages that should never have been sent. Welcome to Saturday morning, bitch.

The best part about being hungover when you’re alone in the house is that you can puke to your heart’s content. With this in mind, I took a risk and made breakfast. I shouldn’t have gone with eggs – imagine how disgusting it’d be vomiting up semi-digested eggs – but managed to keep it all down in the end. Gambled and won.

I had won tickets to go to see Alabama 3 that night, but vowed not to drink as the mere thought of alcohol made me ill. A few hours later, a friend came over before we set off for the gig. We began drinking.

We shared what was left of my Stella, then made a start on the rum he’d brought along. Rum is vile. Gig was amazing. We left the venue, and the fresh air had that incredible drunkening effect. There was some guy preaching about John 3:7 at the top of Grafton Street. Obviously, had we been sober, we’d have done the normal thing and shamefully avoided eye contact and walked on by. Alas, we engaged him. He preached. We listended, nodded, and sometimes said “yeah”. He asked for our phone numbers so he could inform us about some event next week. Something to do with God or Jesus or one of them lads, y’know. I felt a bit like James Bond when I stuttered out some excuse about not having a phone.

Little does he know, I do have a phone! It’s right here in my pocket! It’s even vibrated with a message since we started talking to him! He doesn’t even know I’m drunk! He certainly doesn’t know I’m an atheist!

I’m a very smooth operator you see.

I still have the DVD he gave me, if anyone wants it.

Got the last bus home, and this journey passed without anything interesting happening. When walking home then, I reached into my jumper pocket and found a half-full packet of cigarettes. I generally don’t smoke until I’m drunk, so it’s very unlikely I bought these cigarettes. I was baffled. Racking my addled mind to try to figure out where that box came from.

Could have been from the night before, I wore the same jumper.

About a week later I found out that I’d found them on the ground on the Friday night and yelled “Jackpot!”.

Sunday:

I’m too old for this. Two nights drinking is just too much for me at my ripe old age.

I got up.

I lounged.

I watched X-Factor.

I had a crisp sandwich.

I went to bed.

An average Sunday.

Monday:

I was on time for college. On the way home I picked up another box of Stella Artois. 24 bottles for 15 eurons is just too good to turn down. Having a beer with my dinner (a microwaved lasagne) turned into having enough to be coaxed into going out. We were going to a new-ish club in Maynooth. I’ve been there once before and was thrown out after twenty minutes for picking someone up on the dancefloor. By “someone” I do mean a consenting friend, not a stranger or anything. What a crock of shit. Next thing they’ll be telling me I’m not allowed honk on my crackpipe on the dancefloor. Nazis.

Anyway, we got there fairly late, around half eleven. There was a mob at the (closed) door. Bouncers were telling the mob that the place was full and nobody’d be getting in. One delightful gent next to me decided that the solution to this problem was to push everyone toward the door, causing screams of anguish from a few girls as people got squashed. I’m not taking any liberties with my assessment of his decision either – he verbalised it.

“Fuck it, let’s just push”.

People like this make me wish we could just have regular culls of the human race.

There was also a pair of slags behind me singing that Ireland world cup song, really shouting the lines “And we’ll really shake them up, when we win the world cup”.

It had been days since we didn’t qualify. Our wounds are still open, you odious little fucking cunts. Fuck off. Or maybe sing any song except that. The one song in the world I didn’t want to hear.

Cull them. Cull them all.

We considered going to another place in the area, but upon seeing a bus that brought us back home, the decision was made for us. Pathetic. I must admit that I was a little uncomfortable sitting on that bus, what with my tail wedged so firmly between my legs.

Considered sleeping downstairs again, just because I could.

I didn’t.

Tuesday:

There was some sort of strike on Tuesday. All I knew was that my lectures were cancelled. So you may wonder what I achieved on this full day of total freedom? Free house, no college, no restraints.

I didn’t even get dressed.

At one point I had a revelation when I realised I could watch porn, downstairs, in the living room, with the sound on. No headphones or anything.

I didn’t though.

What if the neighbours heard like?

Imagine they had to come in and complain about the pornographic noise level. And I have to answer the door looking all flustered and with my belt still undone. Couldn’t be having that.

Wednesday :

I had three meals on Wednesday. All of them contained potato waffles.

Thursday:

The parents were coming home the next day. There was an absolute mountain of washing-up to do. There was still some Stella left in the fridge that had to be polished off.

I discovered that it is impossible to get drunk if you are wearing latex washing-up gloves.

It’s also rather difficult to look cool. Particularly if you’re mincing around the kitchen listening to Queen. Catching your own reflection at a time like this is quite demoralising.

Friday:

Parents came home. I was sort of relieved. Having a free house puts pressure on you to drink more than you should. Maybe even more than you’d like. Also, I was looking forward to eating some roast potatoes again. Maybe even a carrot or two. Also, I was hoping they brought me back stuff.

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