Bottoms Up

Bottoms Up

 

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Yesterday was the annual highland games in my village – something that was described by a close friend as being “better than christmas” and, while another close friend said that that was by far the saddest thing he had ever heard, I had to agree. Oh how I remember the days when I was younger, waking up to the sound of distant bag pipes, jumping out of bed, and running down the track in my pyjamas to catch a glimpse of the mighty pipe band strutting their stuff. The games, what we’d been waiting for all year, had finally ARRIVED!

Ok, maybe we’re a little sad. But you have to understand that there’s not much in our village. Our park consisted of a dodgy rope swing, a climbing frame no one understood, and some sort of special turf thing that seemed to inflict more injuries than it prevented. To our younger selves, the highland games meant the bright lights of waltzers, three-legged races, eating burgers and candy floss until we were sick and our parents being too drunk to remember our bedtimes.

And then we grew up and it became about us getting too drunk to remember our bedtimes.

And then we grew up some more and I got a job in the local shop and so was there during the games, serving the dizzy, sugar high kids and the dizzy, liquored up adults.  

I was working there yesterday, enduring a questionable version of the song, Jolene.

“Josie, Josie, Josie, Josieeeeeeeeeeee, I’m beggin’ of you please don’t keep my changeee…”

And all I could think about was how I couldn’t wait to get as drunk and embarrassing as them.

I don’t drink all that often, but really bloody enjoy it when I do. Everything is dandy, everything is funny, and everyone is lovely. Even that bitch you always hated. You just misunderstood her. But then you wake up, feeling sick from that entire roast chicken you devoured at six in the morning and wondering whether those flash backs of pulling a dog are from an alcohol fuelled dream or if it actually happened.</p>

It did.

Then come the hangover blues. Aren’t they a treat. What the hell do I think I’m doing with my life? I’m such a waster. Ugh, look at me. Lying here, stewing in my own filth, eating my weight in Wispa Mini Bites, watching Sabrina the Teenage Witch, thinking Salem’s done more things than me. I mean, at least he tried to take over the world, that’s something, and now he’s a cat, who wouldn’t want to be a cat? I may as well be a cat, for all I do. Eat and Sleep. God, I’m so fat and lazy. Why don’t you get out on that bike, you big, fat, waster. Everyone else is cooler than you. They’re out doing interesting things while you’re just lying here. That’s right, just go ahead and click another episode. You’ve probably forgotten how to ride a bike anyway.

But ah, fuck it. Those drunken nights are worth it. And the dog wasn’t half bad.

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