Idiots of the alcohol interlude

Very odd things happen. There are also some motorbikes. Just first chapter for now.

Confessions of a Bike punk.

Its blurry and it’s way too bright.

I say it, I probably mean here.

I don’t have a clue where here is at all this time, though.

I definitely remember leaving my house. Actually, Im not all that sure it was my house. There was a cat though, definitely a cat.

Could have been a dog.

My head hurts, my throat feels like it’s been ripped open from my nose, and there is air gushing down it so fast I can barely breathe.

Average morning, really.

I’m almost definitely not fit to be riding, given that I have no idea where I am or quite where I’m going, that my eyes are so fuzzy that I can’t see the house opposite, that I’m shaking to the point of my keys jingling, and I may quite possibly vomit all over my own handles, however, I decide that, despite this, it’s a grand Idea

I have no idea where the three Idiots have disappeared to.

I am assuming they are the ones who have disappeared given the track record of idiocy and acrimony that the three have acquired over the course of a very long period of time, far longer than I have known them.

Iv lived with Sonny, AJ and Irish for around  3 years now.

Im 17 years old, and easily old enough to be fathered by the three, and I live under the somewhat obscured jurisdiction provided by the three buffoons.

It isn’t the intellect of the three that lets them down, Its usually more along the lines of common sense and decision making.

This is probably why I’m here now, which you may find unfair, given the facts, or lack of, actually.

Im irritable, sleep deprived and have a hangdown (Hang over and come down in one, believe me, its vile), I have no money and would like to establish where I am and how to get to my house, food and bed.

And juice.

I really, really want juice.

I turn the key in the engine, realizing that Im currently hanging over a motorbike, which is a very quick and easy way to be arrested for intoxicated driving, without actually doing any driving.

Common sense has not yet failed me.

The bike doesn’t sound too clever either.

She’s wheezing and coughing, she sounds how I feel.

Poor sweetheart, lord only knows what horrendous abuse she was subjected to in last night’s ventures.

I wonder, if she could tell me, would I work out for myself the other incidents?

I imagine I’d be able to piece it together. Any information, relevant information, at this stage, is useful information.

The signpost, alerting me that I’m currently in Middleborough, is both useful and relevant.

Middleborough. Right. Why?

Regardless of why, the problem still remains that I have no clue in which direction to drive.

The thought of having to discuss this with one of the inbred looking creatures standing around pointing makes me feel rather queasy and nervous.

I pick a direction and follow my nose, or rather, what’s left of it.

The road swirls, a colourful trail of blur is left as I look forward.

I can just about make out the road ahead, despite being blinded by my own sight, and the smell of general burning making my queasy stomach lurch.

Idiotic really.

Drinking to the point of being unable to walk properly, and choosing a motorbike as an alternative method of transport, but the bike is easier to maneuver than my own feet.

The bike does what I want it to do; she turns at ease, glides across the road.

Every move with her is a cruise; every move with my feet is a bruise.

I find the fact that my own thoughts are in rhyme absolutely hilarious.

Not many people can say that they think in rhyme, and then of course it dawns on me to wonder why anyone would possibly want to.

I realize now that I’m still very much out of it, and choose to concentrate on the road.

I wasn’t cold until I got onto the bike.

Now I’m icy all over, the cold creeping in through my helmet and glazing my ears read, tinting my fingers blue and bleaching my lips.

I shudder with such force that I knock the bike and obscure my path.

I pull over into a layby, but quickly make the decision to continue to a nearby service station.

A coffee should pull me out of whatever this is.

Only two interesting things happen in the service station.

I receive a phone call from Sonny telling me of the latest problems that must be dealt with, and of course im the only person suited and he cannot possibly find anybody else in the time given, which is oh so very grand, and Iv vomited 16 times into a bush.

Im back on the bike rushing to the meeting grounds, which although id love to disclose, I cannot, with insane pace in order, err, to restore order.