Now that autumn is upon us, Tony reckons that it’ll only be a matter of days before he starts suffering from chronic depression, the will to live will leave him, and life in general will be more shit than it is right now.
So to help raise my overweight friend’s spirits, I’ve decided that we’re going to have a couple of mouth-watering cheeseburgers for dinner, followed by a few pints of lager, at our favourite pub.
Tony’s already feeling a lot better, and says that only last night he dreamt that he met a Norwegian beauty called Helena, in the pub, and the two of them moved to Oslo, got married, had lots of kids, and lived happily ever after.
Personally, I reckon his dream has all the makings of a nightmare, because as I know only too well, Tony isn’t the sort of man to live in a country where there’s not a lot to do at the weekend, and where fish and reindeer meat are the only things that the natives eat.
Still, I’m not one to stand in the way of true love, and if the boy reckons that the woman of his dreams will be waiting for him in the pub tonight, I can only encourage him, and have told him that Helena, or whatever her name might be, will be REALLY impressed if he tones down his foul language, only drinks eight pints of export-strength lager, instead of twelve, and remembers to put on a clean pair of underpants, free of shit marks and piss stains.
For once in his life, he’s taken everything on board I’ve told him, and as I write, he’s in the bathroom having a shave, and dreaming of rolling around in the snow with Helena.