Saturday, 28 April 2012

Another Shattered Dream

Today we're going to visit our friend, Glen, who lives in north London, and who has decided to dedicate this weekend to getting drunk and watching football in his favourite pub.
Of course, Tony and me couldn't refuse when Glen asked us if we wanted to join him for the weekend, because (a) drinking beer and watching football is our kind of thing, and (b) we've not got much else to do with our time.
Such 48 hour binges are a must every now and then - especially for people like Tony and me - because the alcohol helps flush the anger out of our systems, and gives us the resolve to carry on in what seems like an endless fight against the pressures of modern-day society.
Tony reckons that weekends were made for football, and he regrets the fact that he never became a professional footballer when he was younger.
I suppose it is a shame that my friend never realised his dream, but then what the hell does he expect?
Tony blames his lack of success on the fact that his ball control was less than perfect, but as we all know, he failed to become another David Beckham because he is VERY fat, he can't run very fast, and he's permanently drunk.
I think Tony disagrees with me, but because we're in a hurry to join Glen, and because I'm always right, we'll probably continue this discussion at another time.

Wednesday, 25 April 2012

Why Drinking Is Bad For You

Tony and me had pizza for dinner last night - I had a 4 cheese special, and he had his usual chicken, mango & pineapple gut-buster. The fine food was washed down with the strongest of lager we could get our grubby hands on, followed by several delicious cigarettes. We then went to the pub, enjoyed more drinks, and watched a football match on the big-screen television.
By the end of the evening Tony was very drunk - slurring his words and singing patriotic songs - and wanting to try his luck with the woman upstairs.
Now, when Tony wants to try his luck with Rosa (she's Portuguese), it's a clear sign that there's more alcohol in his blood than can be good for him.
Not that Rosa is that bad. I mean, she's a little too hairy for my liking - with her moustache - and she's probably older than the sort of girls that Tony prefers to lure into his bed, but apart from that she can speak two languages (very handy), enjoys a drink (that's always a good thing), and is a good cook (life just got better).
Fortunately, the boy fell asleep before attempting to woo Rosa with his hidden charms, and I was able to let out a huge sigh of relief knowing that another disaster had been avoided, and that the human hairball from Portugal isn't going to be a regular feature of our lives!

Monday, 23 April 2012

The Oldest Teenagers In Town

Tony and me think that it's our couldn't-care-less attitude that keeps us going through life, when people all around us are giving up the struggle, and giving in to mental breakdowns and executive stress.
We are the oldest teenagers in town - both in our early forties - but still acting like a couple of nineteen year old men, and enjoying life to the full.
We may not be the richest people in London, but we still manage to live the good life.
The cheeseburgers are great, the lager is fantastic, and the occasional afternoon spent having rough sex is always welcome.
There's no time for nervous or mental breakdowns in our life, anxiety isn't making us anorexic (although Tony could do with losing some weight), and the worldwide financial crisis hasn't changed our spending habits, because we're permanently broke.
So, embrace our live for today - and to hell with tomorrow attitude, follow us on a fantastic jorney, AND START LIVING!

Wednesday, 18 April 2012

Elvis, The King Of South-East London

Tonight we're going to the pub, because Tony fancies his chances at winning first prize in the karaoke contest.
My fat friend just loves to get up on the stage - especially when drunk - and belt out a couple of Elvis numbers. Unless you've heard Tony sing It's Now Or Never or Suspicious Minds, then you haven't really lived.
It's a spectacle to be savoured, and even some of the pub's other customers reckon that Tony is in fact Elvis reincarnated, because the voice, the movement of the hips, the presence on stage, and the way women throw their underwear at him is just as it was with The King.
I'm only glad that the boy has finally cheered up, and that he's ready to meet his adoring public (they're his words), and entertain them like they've never been entertained before.
Last time he finished second in the contest, behind a very good Frank Sinatra.
However, this time luck will be on Tony's side, because the Sinatra impersonator who did so well last time won't be singing tonight, because he's currently serving a three week prison sentence for being drunk and disorderly in Hyde Park.
Still, as Tony rightly says, it seems that with Sinatra behind bars, the way is open for him to sing his way to a much-needed fifty pounds.
I only hope the fat bastard wins, gives me half of his winnings, and realises that life is too short to be miserable.

Sunday, 15 April 2012

And The Misery Continues

Last night was singles night at our local pub, and although I had hoped that lots of available women on offer would have helped bring a smile to Tony's face, my fat friend is still very depressed.
Rebecca, 37, seemed like she was in the mood for some fun, and although she's got four children, and was heavily tattooed, I thought Tony would have jumped at the chance to spend an evening with her back in our flat.
But, it wasn't to be, and after telling Rebecca that she wasn't his sort of woman, he spent most of the evening at the bar, where he got very drunk, before trying his luck with a dark-haired beauty from a very rough estate not too far from where we live.
It's sad to see my friend make a fool of himself in front of so many people, and after the girl had told him quite clearly that she wasn't interested in fat men, I thought Tony was going to suffer a nervous breakdown.
Today he hasn't emerged from his bedroom, and whilst I'm concerned about his state of mind, my concerns won't stop me from going to the pub at lunchtime - alone - to watch football on the pub's big-screen television.
Of course, some people may say that I'm a heartless individual, abandoning Tony in his hour of need. But, as far as I'm concerned, and as much as I like my friend, there's no way that the fattest man in south-east London is going to ruin the rest of my weekend.
I think Tony understands that I have no time for self-pity/depression/misery/angst/sadness, and that come noon, I'll be enjoying a drink in our local pub - WITH OR WITHOUT HIM!

Friday, 13 April 2012

The Highs & Lows...

So, after a great weekend camping with our friends, this week Tony's finding it hard to get back to living in our filthy flat, in south-east London, and is wanting to get back to the countryside as soon as possible.
Yes, the boy is depressed, but if he thinks that spending another few days in a tent is going to pull him out of the pit of misery in which he's currently drowning (that's very poetic, isn't it?), I think he's confused.
Of course, I don't like to see my overweight friend feeling down, but with summer almost upon us, the birds singing, and the thoughts of long days drinking cold lager, and sleeping off our hangovers, I'm not sure what else he wants in life.
Okay, the countryside is all very well with its green fields, trees, and animals, but here in south-east London, with its cold, grey concrete, the ugly tower-blocks, the high rate of unemployment, the mindless vandalism, and the dog shit-lined pavements, what else could a man want?

Monday, 9 April 2012

The Delights Of Camping

Tony and me have just got back to London after spending five days camping in the English countryside, with a few of our friends.
The camping adventure had been organised by Kevin, our friend who peels vegetables for a living, and we were joined by Glen and his girlfriend (a very charming couple), Andy (just out of prison for the umpteenth time), and a couple of other heavy-drinking, tattooed beasts, who spent most of the time trying to seduce a couple of Danish girls, who were camping just next to us.
The girls eventually allowed Paul and Mark to sleep with them, after Paul told one of the girls that he was a one-woman man, and treats girls with total respect. Tony laughed when he heard that, and he said that if the two Danish girls thought that Paul and Mark were a fine example of English gentlemen, then they clearly had lived a very sheltered life.
Glen said that it's the smell of the countryside that turns men into hormone-charged sex maniacs, and that back in London one's sexual desire is dampened by the smell of exhaust fumes and a lack of quality air.
Glen could be right, because London can be quite depressing at times, and although I like the thought of sleeping in my damp flat, on my equally damp mattress, a few days in a tent, sleeping on a groundsheet, can do wonders for a man's mind, and may lead to a few days of wild sex!