Jeez... In a Days Inn right next to the A1 in Durham, and I mean right next to the A1 - (I can hear Vauxhall Vectras whizzing by), surrounded by the 85% Scottish contingent of the 'Scottish' wedding I am 'attending' tomorrow.
They've been at the pub all day since arrival at noon ("Ooh, the lasagne was nice, but it was red-hot") - that'll be the microwaved Brake's Brothers oligopoly babe!. Mother of the groom doesn't want anybody to drink until tomorrow, but their offspring (and her husband who did a 42 Commando manoeuvre to rid himself of the KFC and Maccies stench/farts from the M5/M6 slog from Olney) slunk off to a security light dappled sit-off/stand-off in the trucker's car park, replenished by the WH Smith portfolio of cans and cocktails (no straws,/no ice). I thought I was in some Prague porn channel and nearly pulled my zip down. New arrival followed- Father of the groom's brother is here, resplendent in Umbro, and he's really pissing me off with his 'banter'. They are from Callendar, but pure dead East End (Wee Mans bar - all facts and figures, whilst all the while looking, and sounding like McSkeletor).
Talks turned to 'WHERE ARE YOU FROM' and football. Words like 'Huns' and that 'Celtic could handle the Premier League' (based on their crowd numbers?), and "I know Irvine Welsh" abound, whilst pissing down the side of a (at a push 2-star hostelry,) 20 minutes from the splendour of Durham's cultured walls, have punctuated my tender ears tonight. God knows what tomorrow and the main event will bring. Less Mark Hollis, more Reg Hollis's new squeeze's menkal family, that he met via punternet. Put it this way, I won't be asking their advice on hybrid bikes for £400 lads.
I am going to be on the road to divorce by this time tomorrow, guaranteed. The nearby A1 is thrumming louder than my wife's menopausal fan ("You'll zone out of it", she says), and she's right on one with her ascendent weegie tones, discussing the merits of schemes and who came from where. AC/DC have been mentioned, as has Jim Kerr and his massive schlong.
I might pop my headphones in and listen to some Erik Satie for some relief. or I might have stealth wank to the Scottish whopper's wife, as payback.
Pray for me, it's going to be a long time until I'm home to see my dogs on Saturday. I've even brought a Breton top to change in for tomorrow night ("Blue stripes eh? You Hun c*nt"). There's talk of going to McDonald's for breakfast, or the Greggs next to the Amazon fulfilment centre.
Fuck my life (sometimes). I'll be drinking whiskey and dancing to 'Dignity' by 2.00pm guaranteed...
