The Morning After The Night Before

Jason Duck

I awake, eye lids gummed up with shit and head throbbing. I open my eyes and sun light instantly shoots into them, like lasers. Instinctively shutting them I try and piece together what happened the night before. Fragments of dim memories swim before my mind’s eye. It was me 40th birthday and I’d went on the lash with a bunch of football mates. We call ourselves ‘The Four Fucketeers.’ We’ve known each other since school. We were a handful then. We still are.

The night had definitely started at ‘The Saxon King’ pub on our estate but many different pub interiors assault me scrambled mind like splinters of glass. I remember starting on Stellas and then moving on to whiskey and full fat cokes. Some fucker, think it was Dippy Dave thought it would be a great idea to add a little cheeky vodka shot to my pints and passed the message to the others, the cunt.

We were at the third or maybe the fourth pub when Big Tel scored some coke. As it was my birthday he shared a couple of lines with me in the bog. Better than a fucking card any day mate. It right hit the spot and I was ready to party…hard.

When we came back Randy Roy was chatting up a couple of birds, who were sitting at the table opposite. They were giggling and whispering to each other like girls do as Randy Roy stood there doing his thing. He’s normally pretty good at it too but not tonight. Don’t think it helped that he was half pissed by this time and had a whole table of leering mates across the way watching and egging him on.

Another reason could have been that their fellas had returned with drinks and were staring at Randy Roy like he was some sort of cunt.

‘Fuck off,’ said one.