Things got too much for me yesterday and I decided to break my no drinking promise that I made to someone and went out on a bender. I went on a pub crawl down Old Street right through Angel and up to Essex Road on my own.
By the time I got to Essex Road I only had time for a couple as most of the pubs were closing. But I am anything if not resourceful and I had a back-up plan that I used to use a lot back in the day when I was an outdoor lager enthusiast.
I walked to Stoke Newington, probably one of a handful of places in London with loads of 24-hour off licences, and bought a huge amount of canned beer and then went and sat in Abney Park Cemetery and drank away until the sun came up.
I think I left there about 11am this morning.
It was interesting, sitting somewhere surrounded by death. As it got light I started walking around and reading the grave stones that had not crumbled to dust.
It’s difficult not to have morbid thoughts when you’re in a cemetery at about 5am in the morning drinking cans of cheap cider and being surrounded by death. Thoughts like “If I died right now how long would I lay undiscovered?”
I didn’t try to do anything stupid, One of you do-gooding fuckers would only jump out of the bushes at the last moment and stop me anyway. They are like police, always around when you don’t fucking want them to be.
You can’t scream and shout at them to mind their own fucking business, and let you get on with it, because that makes you sound like the cunt, even though they are the ones interfering in your life.
If Nick Griffin adds deporting do-gooders to his party’s manifesto then I’m voting for the BNP at the next election.