The Hangover

Three day binge. Inexplicable unplanned binges, cross-firing into each other.

It’s morning now, somewhere in deep, silent vaults pertained in my skull is a bunch of brain cells licking each other back awake, and cursing my fucking name. They’re all mush now. Hollow. They’re skins without substance.

Coffee, I think, coffee will fix everything. Come on fellas, stop punishing me.

Sitting then in a greasy spoon, staring directly through the steamy vapors cradling my limp, greying face and into the black cavern of optimism, of comfort, of muddy caffeine.

Somewhere near the counter a woman can be heard abusing the waitress for not putting any cream on her mocha.

We don’t have cream, the waitress tells her.

The woman turns on her heels, swears, and then turns back as though nothing has happened.

She asks for a white coffee instead, Can you manage that? She spits at the poor, scrawny underpaid cow behind the counter.

She walks past my table. I cower.

It’s 11am and she’s wearing stack heels so large they resemble murder weapons for the feet. Her hair is bright purple and short. She’s also wearing a cut off denim jacket which she probably bought ready-cut and grungey looking. She probably paid a lot of money to look so fucking awful.

I suddenly catch a whiff of myself - three day hedonism. A stench potent with shameful things, burnt things, mysterious things, unclean things, chemical things, lusty things, sleepless things. I can’t judge anyone.

I sip at my coffee and watch a pigeon trying to eat a bee on the pavement outside.

The purple woman returns to the counter.

Wheres me coffee, love?

It coming. Being made now - two minute, sorry promise.

Oh is it now? Bloody ordered that before anyone else in ‘ere.

She starts pointing around the place - Before him, before her, before this one ‘ere - she throws a finger at me. I have a minor stroke and feel a flush of sweat engulf me.

It coming miss. Two minutes.

I NEED it now, girl. Do understand that? I fucking need it, NOW. I’m not leaving this counter until you fucking pass it to me.

Fine. You wait.

The scrawny foreign waitress escapes to the back and rants something in an indecipherable fast paced language. She brings out two full English breakfasts and walks past the silly cow stood at the counter.

Eh, love. Are they our breakfasts? She storms over to the table the waitress has just slammed the plates down on. Make sure you bring that fucking coffee over, she says sternly shoving her face so close to the waitress’ that their noses nuzzle for a second.

The coffee comes over.

The purple things friend is kicking off now. She’s from Yorkshire and her voice sounds thick with the experience of a woman who’s probably broken more than her share of teeth, jaws and noses in her time.

She’s wearing a maxi-dress which she probably bought from the market, but will proclaim it’s designer to anyone who dares fucking ask.

The Yorkshire one is unsatisfied with her breakfast. Fuck knows what she was expecting, but apparently the beans are touching too much sausage, the sausages ‘look funny’, the bacon looks too fatty and it has a fried egg rather than two poached eggs as requested.

She walks up to the counter. She’s also wearing big heels but in the disguise of a gigantic wedge which bellows her arse out like a prize ass (the animal, not the body part).

The service ‘ere, love, let me tell yer - she puts her hand on her hip - the service ‘ere is fucking disgusting. Yer food is bloody disgusting. And you are a poor, poor, excuse for a bloody wage, aren’t yer? Listen love, tell yer chef behind there, yeah, to fucking just throw an egg on - a decent bloody egg - he can even scramble it if his fookin GNVQ cookery class hasn’t covered poachin’ yet.

Two minutes, she scowls, any longer than that and you’re gonna have a bloody problem.

She marches back to her purple state of a mate, and the two of them discuss how incredibly, soul destroying and offensive the greasy spoon they chose to eat in has turned out to be. They change the subject to talking about Sex And The City and how it taught them ‘a lot about love an’thaaa’ when they were young girls.

My coffee’s running low. I watch them out of the corner of my eye stuffing sausage, bacon and toast into their mouths in massive mouthfuls and hope to God one of them gets it lodged in their throat - if just for a minute.

I contemplate gagging them with my own putrid, stinking socks but think better of it. It would mean having to walk home with my feet rubbing inside my shoes, and today will be hard enough as it is.

Their eggs haven’t turned up. They’re furious.

My phone keeps going. Text messages pile up and crash together the way traffic jams do when a rogue car slams into the back of it. Apologies. Pleas. Begging. Seduction attempts. invitations to suspicious parties. Frightening anecdotes. I feel bile rise. Flashbacks hit me.

The purple thing and her donkey mate throw their napkins onto their half full plates. They take a sip of their coffee each and both look at each other with dramatic disdain. They charge once more at the counter and with juvenile, disturbing synchronization hurl a shit storm of abuse back at the waitress.

They grab their faux-designer bags and totter out the place. I think I remember an episode of Sex And The City when Carrie Bradshaw did the exact same when leaving a greasy spoon, but then realise it was actual an episode of Street Crime Uk involving a jewish trannie called Minnie who wasn’t served kosher meat.

Fuck.

The waitress starts sobbing.

I grab a few napkins out of the table dispenser and run to her aid, dabbing her face and apologizing on behalf of half-cut, badly dressed northern women every where.

They’re so rude, I say, grinning shit at her.

And then just as planned she smiles at me, says her thanks, and makes me a free coffee.

She squirts cream on the top of it.

We had it the whole time, she says, I just didn’t want to give it to them whores.