Destroying a year in the space of a weekSubmitted by Spam at 2007-01-09 18:21:39 EST
Rating: 1.95 on 57 ratings (57 reviews) (Review this item) (V)
“When do I get my money boss?
“Soon, Sam. Soon.”
I guess I have to smile. What else is there to do?
There’s no furniture in my lounge, just a 14” portable TV in the corner with a tattered old beige cushion lying next to it where I sit whenever I feel like a change of scenery. The rest of the room is 150 square foot of high-ceilinged Georgian waste. And it’s here I sit with that smile on my face, splitting old fag ends over a calendar from my local take-away ready to collect some of the rancid, second-hand tobacco and make it into something that at least looks like the first cigarette of year.
Beneath the stinking shreds of tar-stained leaf, I can see that 2006 was the Chinese year of the Dog. My Animal. My year. And you’d know it too. Right from the stroke of midnight when my now ex-girlfriend slunk her arms around my neck and kissed me for the first time, everything was fucking beautiful. Dogss are faithful and I planned to be with this girl for ever.
Then, New Yearss day, as I’m leaving her house almost saturated with that self-congratulatory sense of smugness that can only come after fucking the shit out of somebody who you really think could be quite special, I get the call from my now ex-employers stating that yes, they would like to hire me for the job that pays 3 times as much as I’ve ever earnt and infinitely more than I was getting for sitting on my arse smoking pot.
It’s amazing how much your fortune can change in a day but it’s always a worry, because you know already that one day, maybe sometime far into the future, it’s all gonna change back.
But it didn’t.
Even the inevitable split from the girl was good for me, the shine from layers of false interest and pseudo-personality having worn off,. I found somebody that was harmless and fun to be with but for whom I had no feelings for whatsoever. Dogs are honest, the calendar says, and they have a strong code of ethics, so I told her straight and broke her heart, taking solace that at least I did things right
“When am I getting my Rent money Sam?”
And the year crept on, Winter to Spring, Summer to Autumn. And all the while the money rolls in. Thousands of pounds. In six months I earnt more than the previous two years combined. But you know, it’s not the money that’s important, It’s what you do with it.
And fuck me this dog could tell you some stories, probably will at some point. Stupid things that I shouldn’t take any pride in. Stinking out an entire floor of The Savoy Hotel with the pungent smell of high grade skunk after holding an all night party in one of their non-smoking suites. Washing down almost uncut cocaine with £350 bottles of champagne. Going to the Reading festival in an Armani suit, just for the fuck of it. The embarrassment of asking the overly snobby staff of Simpson’s-on-the-Strand to take back my drink because I didn’t realise that when you order a Remy Martin and coke they assume you mean a glass of Louis XIII at £160 a fucking SHOT. Twats had already put Pepsi in it too.
Right up to new year again, when ridiculously, I had two women almost desperately trying to get me to go home with them, one on either side, each with a mischievous hand stroking the inside of one of my thighs, only to discover their competition when they met in the middle. But Dogs are dogmatic see and there was only going to be one winner there, so it was the ex on my right that I accompanied home for a pre-arranged one night only fuck.
And then it’s all over. The bells ring and people cheer.
Auld Langs Syne is still playing somewhere back in that smoky laughter filled pub when things start to shift but it’s not until we’re in bed and she says “I’ve decided that it’s probably best if we don’t sleep together tonight if we’re gonna get back together.” that I realise that my year’s over.
And it’s shit like this why I don’t do one-night-stands.
The Calendar says 2007 is the year of the Pig so it’s almost no surprise when, on January 2nd, the black and green monitor still reads -£1205.67 and I already know what the answer’s gonna be when I make my phone call.
“There’s been some problem with your pay Sam.”
No fucking shit.
“Don’t worry, everybody else has been paid.”
That’s a great comfort.
“But we haven’t been paid any of you commissions for some reason”.
But my new house doesn’t even have any furniture.
“I know, we’re trying to sort it out before you come back off holiday.”
Don’t kick a dog, cos that mother fucker’ll bite you right back. But it seems somewhere along the line I lost my bark. At least for a week.
“Seriously Boss, When the fuck am I getting my money? I haven’t even got any food in my house”
“The best we can do is next pay day.”
“What, the one that’s Three Fucking Weeks away?”
“Well fuck you then, I quit.”
So I smile.
But it’s not a sad smile, not that hopeless simper of the widow dealing with fawning grievers at her husband's wake. No folks, this mother fucker’s genuine.
And I’m smiling because everything I’ve just described is fucking bullshit, it all means nothing. Women, booze, money, drugs - that shit’s as empty as my living room. That's not what this life's all about.
It's about Eating cold beans from the tin because you’ve got no money to put in the electric meter and no hot water to do the washing up. It’s all about sleeping fully clothed under the blankets because heating during winter has suddenly become a luxury.
Somewhere down the line I lost all this, forgot the struggle, got soft, grew complacent. But I missed it man, and I can’t even tell you why. I guess you just can’t get any satisfaction from something that comes easy and I tell you now folks, as I open bills I can’t pay and prepare to light this foul, piss and bonfire stinking excuse for a roll up, I’ll tell you the one thing on this page that’s maybe a hundred percent honest.
It’s fucking good to be alive.
Happy new year all.jpg