I was trying to get some writing done when my friend Mike turned up with his arm in a sling after falling through the roof of a burnt out warehouse in Hackney while high on MDMA and dressed as a goblin or something for Halloween. Landed on his face but he was alright; two days in hospital.
He arrived bearing venison sausages and an unidentifiable fruit. I told him about a book I'm writing about celebrities who get infected with a disease called Celebricide that drives them mad like rabid dogs until their cocks falls off and their insides turn to black blood and stuff and then we drove through South London’s gridlocked rush hour traffic. Mike got so excited about the thought of all those dead celebrities - Kilmer, Lo, Kutcher - he jumped out at the traffic lights to go and see his girlfriend and I went to see a connection to score some strong weed because it was Friday night and I sure as shit wasn’t intending on embracing the evening straight and while he was there he played me a demo by some shitty rock band, which people tend to do a lot these days.
I got back in the car and drove through three miles of nose-to-tail traffic for singing along to House Of Pain on the radio acting like I'm some badass white rapper too, even though I rap like Stephen Hawking. By the time I got home it was dark and Mike had left his sausages on my bed, which made me laugh because I'm a vegetarian and I know how far he had carried them today with his one good arm and how just much he was looking forward to eating them. Actually, it made feel a little sad, thinking of him and his girlfriend without their sausages for the night. I put them in the freezer for him. He can get them another time.
That’s the beauty of technology.