Sad story

Do you remember that time I got drunk on my own and watched comedy specials? The internet kept cutting out, do you remember? I let it buffer while I poured myself another Prosecco, which you told me is the most fattening drink.

It doesn’t make sense, does it? Because if I was on my own, you’d not remember it, because you weren’t there.

You do remember I get so drunk sometimes, that when I go outside, everybody watches me. I’m one of those men, and it’s always men, that stagger around and sing to themselves in verses. It’s like a little hymn under their nose, and then the chorus explodes and everybody in the street looks round, then looks back at their own shoes.

I never sing, and it’s never dark, and I still get all these looks. I’m a quiet British white boy who hasn’t slept, and I get these looks, even when I put one foot in front of another in time, like the way a soldier walks. Nobody who’s had a drink walks like this. It’s never as right as when I do it in the morning. Sometimes in the morning, it’s still illegal for me to drive, so I walk and I never think about the direction of my legs or the shape of my feet. Maybe everyone watches, or maybe nobody does. When I knew you, it used to be hard to drink two bottles of Prosecco a night. Now it’s just expensive.

Do you remember that other time I was alone, and I wrote you a letter, and I can’t even remember what I wrote in it but it came from my stomach? I told you I’m writing the letter because I have nothing else to do, and I drink when I’m bored, but I can’t articulate myself in a letter unless I have the liquid confidence of a Prosecco, which you said is the most fattening drink and I remember that, but honestly, it would be amazing to me if I could have the kids this Christmas because I want them to know my name. If they tell you I’m fat, you can tell them you made me this way.

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Do you know, one time, he threw his dog out a window because it was whining too much? He was sitting there, writing a letter, and it whined at him because he hadn’t fed it in two days. I don’t know if it died, but even if he’d made a Super Mario Kart wheelchair for it to roll around in after it broke its legs, I never told my kids that. He’s not getting near them.

We took a holiday to Majorca once, and early in the morning I pointed out all the bars that I used to go to, and then we went up to our hotel and I brought out the lego, but they got bored in about half an hour. I took them on a hike to tire them out, but there isn’t much to see. The kids pretended to be soldiers with their stick guns, shooting invisible monkeys off trees.

I went back for a nap, and then I left the kids for a few hours because I wanted to go back to that spot by the bar where I met him and we did cocaine off the railings by the play park. He wasn’t so bad back then. I wonder what it would be like if he was still here with our fatty drinks and every single year of the rest of our lives waiting to explore. I think sometimes that if he and I were normal, or if everyone was, we would have such sad stories to tell.