Oh, my bum.

These past few posts have been written, nay, forged, from atop my scabby old desk and faux-leather office chair, a strongbow in one hand, another strongbow in the other; but no more. Luxury without doubt, you would think. I type this now from the floor of our former IT suite and recording studio, my monitor balanced precariously on top of the PC case, my aforementioned bum placed roughly on the short-pile and suspiciously brown carpet. It is so damn uncomfortable; why the hell did I sell my chair, destroy my desk and simultaneously sell/destroy my bed two days before I move house?
What the hell was I thinking? For the next two nights I've got to sleep on the floor amid coat hangers, empty bottles of L'Oreal it's-for-men-actually deodorant  sawdust and crumpled beer cans. I could clear this up, but there is pride at stake here people. My poor bum.

I shouldn't really be typing this, however an exploratory feel of the 'valley' as it were, yielded a sensation not unlike touching a dead person.

This, worryingly, reminds me of how this all came to be (not the bum part, thought that does feature prominently . When I lived in the west country, I used to travel on the weekends to the affluent south east to drink and be merry with my now-flatmate and his former flatmate. This erstwhile flatmate was facinating: if you imagine a white, bespectacled Dutch Shaq who owned a computer mouse that changed colour, you're nearly there. We would sit, myself in a position much like I am sat now, and play World of Warcraft until the wee hours, getting progressively more sozzled and generally yucking it up. When we awoke, bleary eyed at our desks (or in my case, the crimson carpet), tradition dictated we would attend the nearest off license for more booze, and about a hundred cans of cola to quell the shakes, which would prepare us for the trip to the nearest McDonalds for sustenance. Myself and my now-flatmate would clamber into my awesome but incredibly dangerous 1994 burgundy VW Golf and weave dreamily through mid-morning traffic to our destination; pick up said food, somehow manage to survive long enough back to the flat, and do the whole thing all over again.

Magic.

Sadly, come Sunday afternoon/early evening, my back and crack would be so sore I would have to walk like a hungover Tin-man for the next three days. "Never again" my brain would say in a scholarly tone, then the tiny, horrible part of my brain that wears a hoody with matching jogging trousers, busy scrawling crude penises on the skull walls, gives it the finger when Friday rolls around. You would think that my body would attempt to adapt, perhaps adding an extra six inches of flab to my already laden wag'n I'm drag'n, but no; I am forced to feel like my pelvis is slashing machete-like through my central mass.

Here's to you, bed; I hardly knew ye, and now someone else is sleeping on 3 years' worth of me farting like a navvy in my deep REM cycles.

One of these days, I am going to look at what I've written when I'm sober.

And then I'll throw myself of a motorway bridge.