This bank holiday weekend I was very bad. Very bad indeed. Not only did I spend an awful lot of time imbibing the finest wines available to humanity, I spent at least a day plonked on my bum in front of the TV watching the first four episodes of a TV series called Burn Notice.
Burn Notice, if you aren't aware of it, is absolutely brilliant. It follows the trials and tribulations of Michael Westen, a blacklisted CIA contracter who has been sold down the river by his superiors. He's trying desparately to eek out a living with what scant contacts and resources he has left and hopefully avoid getting killed in the process. The plot is essentially an excuse for grand-theft-auto-stylee adventures with an espionage-themed backdrop. It's very funny, violent and smart. Usually all at the same time. Westen is played by Jeffrey Donovan, a dark-haired clone of Guy Pearce in Memento. They even have the same taylor:
While there's plenty to recommend this marvellous show, one of the small things I like best about it is that the character of Westen only drinks water. Like I said, it's a small thing, but one I appreciate. This is because I am fed up of watching TV shows and movies in which the heroes look like they're carved out of marble, yet seem to exist on a diet of fast food, cigarettes and booze. I want to exist on a diet of fast food, cigarettes and booze, and have done so at various stages - and I have the belly to prove it. Westen may have the hero physique, but he drinks water all the time and only seems to eat tofu and pasta in very small portions. He is also fairly miserable as a character and this is probably down to the fact that he has to drink water all the time in between eating miniscule portions of tofu and pasta in order to stay fighting fit. The fact that Westen has horrible diet has made me warm to this character. In fact, his diet is almost as appealing as his sarcastic manner and unconventional looks. I could almost believe him as a spy if he didn't dress so well - let's face it, if you're tailing someone in Hugo Boss and red shades, they're more likely to spot you than if you're wearing something from Primark.
Anyway, this water-drinking thing. I think I might have to go back to drinking exclusively iced water - or fizzy iced water if I want to experience a bit of a thrill - after this last weekend's shenanigans. I woke up on Monday feeling not bad, but not too great either. My throat felt like it had been coated with bee's piss and I was aware of a dull, dusty sensation behind my eyes. No matter, I thought, onward and upward. I went downstairs, showered, dressed shaved, made sandwiches for the wife and I, cursed the name of the cunt who invented the working week (even though I don't know who he is) ate a hearty breakfast of weetabix and toast and then set off to the bus stop. As I closed the gate, my throat cleared and I felt a twinge in my bowels. Probably just the after effects of the weekend, I thought.
The twinge in my bowels turned into a dull, throbbing ache by the time we got to the Tescos near the Tube station. Apparently the bee's piss had detatched from my throat, run down into my stomach, mixed with the brekkie I'd eaten and my body was now working on ejecting this foul compound from my bowels as quickly as possible. The fact that I was about a mile and a half away from home didn't seem to concern my body's need to fire waste out of my anus at the earliest possible juncture.
"There's a public loo in Tesco's" The wife said, helpfully.
We entered the supermarket and I headed over to the public convenience. My wife went in search of immodium as I entered the men's room, opened the cubicle and almost burst into tears upon seeing a large turd and a bowel of urine water threatening to spill over the sides of the loo. Men. Are. Scum. I tried the door of the cubicle for wheelchair-bound toilet visitors and found that unless they were wheelchair-bound individuals with lockpicking skills, then they were shit out of luck. I angrily pulled out my phone and rang my other other half> I was trying to move as little as possible as the contents of my guts were now churning and kicking like a small mutant demanding to be let into this world.
"Yes?"
"Get over here quickly! I need your help!"
Bless her for not laughing when she arrived as I got her to first check that the ladies' room was empty and then to stand guard outside while I rushed into the cubicle and proceeded to pebble-dash the toilet while making the most unholy noises in Christendom. The ladies' room is emaculate. Presumably because women aren't scum. This is a new one for me, I thought, having a shit in a supermarket. I think it's time to adopt a diet of water and small portions of tofu and pasta. This will save me ever being in a position where I may conceivably lose control of my bodily functions in public. Who knows. It might even give me a nice physique. I already have a jaded outlook on life, so I'm at least one third of the way towards getting cast in a UK re-make of Burn Notice.
No. More. Booze. (For a bit anyway)