by Sky'sGoneOut » Mon 06 Jun, 2016 1:36 am
Become an alcoholic.
I went to my Uncle's funeral last Wednesday, he was my Dad's only brother and had been an alcoholic for nigh on 50 years. It cost him his job, his wife and the respect of his children. But there were nigh on 150 people at the crematorium. They couldn't all fit into the room while a humanist lady described his life euphemistically.
Every pub in the village had sent its group of mourners, along with the cricket and fishing clubs. He'd obviously been a customer of them all while wearing his various massive poncho's. My Uncle was awesome.
Anyway, at the wake at the cricket club my cousin Jim who works in Canada with computers paid for a free bar for family members, my Mum and Dad were there and I managed not to make a cunt of myself. Then on the train home to Leeds I accidentally got off the train at wakefield.
I used to go out with a Swedish girl who lived there so presumably that's why it seemed familiar to my tired drunken brain. Anyway there was a last train back to Leeds in 10 minutes which I managed to catch.
After getting back to Leeds I got a taxi home then slipped spectacularly on the stones in the drive, landing it would seem on the little finger of my left hand. Which now looks like a fat little purple sausage.
I have no idea what the moral of this story is.
Become an alcoholic.
I went to my Uncle's funeral last Wednesday, he was my Dad's only brother and had been an alcoholic for nigh on 50 years. It cost him his job, his wife and the respect of his children. But there were nigh on 150 people at the crematorium. They couldn't all fit into the room while a humanist lady described his life euphemistically.
Every pub in the village had sent its group of mourners, along with the cricket and fishing clubs. He'd obviously been a customer of them all while wearing his various massive poncho's. My Uncle was awesome.
Anyway, at the wake at the cricket club my cousin Jim who works in Canada with computers paid for a free bar for family members, my Mum and Dad were there and I managed not to make a cunt of myself. Then on the train home to Leeds I accidentally got off the train at wakefield.
I used to go out with a Swedish girl who lived there so presumably that's why it seemed familiar to my tired drunken brain. Anyway there was a last train back to Leeds in 10 minutes which I managed to catch.
After getting back to Leeds I got a taxi home then slipped spectacularly on the stones in the drive, landing it would seem on the little finger of my left hand. Which now looks like a fat little purple sausage.
I have no idea what the moral of this story is.
