2003-10-13 - 10:31 p.m.

So it's 9.55pm and I'm running out of beer. The stupid liscencing laws mean I will have to act quickly. I've figured out that the only way to get rid of this pesky hangover is to get drunk again (difficult because I feel sick and it's not going down easily). So I fly upstairs, throw on some trousers, grab my bank card and leave the house without locking the door. I run to the Morning Noon and Night store which is 5 minutes down the road. I get there and just about puke from the exertion. The fucking ATM is out of order. Shit. I sprint to Asda which is another 2 minutes away. I jab my card into their bank machine while muttering "come on, come on, for fuck's sake". I snatch out the note and nip round to the front of the shop. I persuade the nervous looking woman guarding the door to let me in before they close (it's supposed to be 24 hours). I walk briskly to the liquor aisle while scanning the checkouts to note the queue lengths. I pick up a six pack of Miller and then change my mind and opt for Bud instead. I'd been listening to Guided By Voices, so it seemed appropriate. This would prove costly.

I get to the checkout and drop a couple of cans. As I'm making myself vertical again, I follow the legs in front of me to find the face of Brian, a demented drug addict who I used to work with. We shoot the breeze as I try to compose myself. Then the checkout woman tells me "Sorry I can't put that through, it's ten". It takes a moment for this devasting news to sink in. She must be kidding. A little charm might help. "I look her in the eye and smile "Ah, come on, it's a minute to ten." She doesn't smile back. "It's ten on the till". "Well if It's ten, then you can still serve me" I say, with creeping desparation. Brian even says "He can go before me", god bless 'im. It's no use. She ain't budging. Apparantly Asda are so fucking fussy that they've programmed their tills not to sell booze after 9.59. Cunts. But! All is not lost! As some compassion sinks into her gnarled face, the checkout bint says "try that one", nodding to the express checkout next to her. "You just can't stand to see me doing nothing, can you?" smiles the pretty lass behind it to her collegue. She logs on in record time and trys to scan my sixer. I'm going to pieces with nerves at this stage. "Sorry" she says looking like she means it, "It's not letting me put it through". Fucking cunty bollocks. I wrap my cape around my shoulders and storm out, scattering the idiots adise with my cane. I'm now really fucking thirsty and determined not to admit defeat.

I keep walking past my house to the nearest pub, 4 minutes away. It's after 10, but I'm counting on the kindness of someone who understands drinkers. The place is empty and as I enter and old woman gets up and moves behind the bar. "Hi, would I be able to buy something to take out?" I raise my eyebrows in hope. Her subtle shift in mass tells me that my luck is in. "What is it you want?" I get 5 bottles of Bud for the rip off price of £10, but I ain't complaining. As I'm walking home with a metaphorical spring, I see Brian walking down the other side of the street. I'm in such a good mood that I pause and catch his eye. Recognition. I jiggle the bag and call out "Had to go to the fucking Lamplight Lounge!" He bursts out laughing. It's all worked out OK. I'm sweaty and comforted. I'm sitting here, shirtless with a re-stocked fridge. I'm not proud.

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