Lard Motel

[hirez]

(Brain-chemistry still a bit knackered, so...)
(And I've been overcome by an attack of the prolix)
(And it would appear I've a set of new subscribers)
(And anonymous lurking wasp-factroids armed with vast mechanical badgers)
(It's like having clay-people lurking behind the sofa and gleefully absorbing the Gormo-Rays that come from the telly.)

Thus: Any daft questions before it all gets strange and antagonistic again? Or shall I just continue with the off-colour jokes and barbed comments until everybody gets a monk on and stumps off?

(And indeed, when in hell did I start to care about anyone else's opinion about what I choose to leave here? That's just broken...)

Comments

[quercus.livejournal.com]

There's a Glaswegian smack-head called Steve who fries a mean fried egg. Pre- it all going a bit Irvine Welsh, he was some sort of chef.

I met the guy in a homeless shelter in Brissel. I was working there, he lived there (thanks for asking). New Year's Eve, and I've pulled an evening shift. Deep Joy.

The usual stuff happens. Tramp fights. Impromptu rehearsals for Jackass. Purple Tin gets spilled. Puke to mop up.

Then Steve goes for the New Year's Eve Giant Rollover Jackpot; OD's and collapses. Blue fingers, the lot. Bollocks - Who's got the naloxone kit and who's got a ticket to stick him ? (this is before Narcan in a nose-squirter) Where's Uma Thurmann when you need her ?

Time passes. So does the blue tinge (everyone should get to see naloxone in action, it's incredible). Ten minutes later, and he's back on his feet and hatching a plan to sneak onto a train to Glasgow, in time for Hogmanay morning. I'm knackered - I just want my bed.

Food for the journey - so I have to fire up the kitchen and make that favourite food of the itinerant smackhead, the fried-egg sarnie. Only I'm not doing it right, so I'm muscled out of the way and instructed in the art of making real fried eggs, by someone who I damn near saw die right in front of me, not an hour earlier. (The trick is to use plenty of oil, and have it well hot before the egg goes in - there's as much deep frying involved as anything else). Then he sets to train-hitch to Glasgow an hour before midnight, and I crawl home to my pit. Other people get to celebrate.

I believe he did make it to Glasgow, some time around the 3rd.