The Night I Lost My Head


Coming back to earth is an interesting experience.

I stood on a bottle, it slipped from under my foot, and the concrete gave me a thunderous uppercut. I’d say I just got run over by a truck, but not even Big Rigg Hendricks could hit like this.

Get up, dust off, keep drinking. I’m not going home just because of this shit.

The following days were like a hangover that just wouldn’t end. Whatever planet is beyond pain, that’s where I was. Once the fog finally lifted, I was left with a nice scar on my chin as a reminder of what can happen.

I couldn’t feel my fucking face, but I’ve never felt more alive than I did in that moment.



She has painted toenails, and her bed always runs from east to west.

I dropped my phone while trying to enter in her number. Not nervous, just drunk. I’ll thank her for not counting that against me.

She makes me want to be someone better.

Russell Brand, Booky Wook 2, he recounts the first night he took Kate Moss home. The next morning, he popped out, for the Sunday paper or a bottle of milk or a jar of coffee or some such (might be mistaking it in the retelling, but that’s not the important detail), with the intent to test Kate out. If she simply left and left things as they were, he’d know she only meant it to be for one night. But If she made the bed before leaving, however, he knew that she wanted to come back. She made the bed.

I want to come back. I make the bed. I’m overjoyed that she notices.

Waking up next to her for the first time is my Groundhog Day moment. It was a precious, perfect few seconds of peaceful contentment that I’ll always remember but will never get back. If I could re-live that for the rest of my life, I’d be happy.

Easy Like Sunday Morning

I throw myself out of a taxi, just in time for my insides to throw themselves out onto the pavement. I sit marinating in the sun beside the viscous pile of sick for what feels like days, paralysed in my own stupor.

Eventually I regroup enough to stagger behind a building and piss out some poisons, and then wander homeward bound by foot.


I’m a tourist, I’m a wreck, I’m a vomit-green transparency, lighting up a cigarette.

Postcards of Persuasion

I knew it couldn’t last.

She swept towards me, stopping me in a doorway, already knowing my name and having formed a mythology in her mind. Later, seemingly unsatisfied with my consistent lack of eye contact, she pushed my hair out of my eyes, and held my face in place so that my gaze couldn’t escape hers. I was spellbound.

She was a black celebration, in dress, shoes and fingernails, contrasting starkly with her golden hair and flawless porcelain skin. A dark jewel hung from a pendant between her breasts, drawing attention to a form that can only be described as other-worldly. We’ve met for a second time, a result of mutual intrigue. She charms further with her champagne’d sway.

We ring in the new year with a kiss. We shouldn’t be doing this. She tells me in the sober morning that I look like a pirate. I want to be a pirate.

I’m enveloped thickly in J&B as I approach her house late on a steamy February evening. Unable to sleep, intimidated by the impossible beauty of her slumbering shape beside me, I depart just before sunrise, hot wind blowing away the last remnants of the dream on a lengthy walk home.

I knew I couldn’t last.