Gruel and rhubarb? Yes please!

During a trip to my local Post Office the other day, as I queued laden with parcels in a never-decreasing line of coughing, sniffling and diseased people, I happened to overhear just in front of me two blokes speaking in hushed tones. The bloke speaking the most was in his fifties but was powerfully built and had sore-looking cuts and scrapes across his face and bald head; the other bloke was in his thirties and was listening intently, albeit with an increasingly astonished look adorning his face as the older bloke’s tale progressed. With a long wait ahead of me, I popped out one of my MP3 earplugs and covertly eavesdropped on their conversation in order to kill the boredom.

A dalliance with the demon drink... pt 2

So, with my now-injured brother G bumbling his way towards his girlfriend’s mother’s house and their New Year’s Eve family party, things were definitely beginning to unravel in his little world: he had head-butted and successfully smashed a bus shelter’s Tempered glass panel with nothing more than his skull and was now deliriously wandering towards his destiny. Now, my brother has very limited recall for the following account, although he does occasionally get a flashback occasionally of such horrifying clarity that instant suppression is required to avoid festering upon being such a f**king idiot.