Day of The Beast

I was going through a rough patch jobwise- that is to say, I was, and probably still am, unemployable.  I had, purely through fluke, wangled an interview at my local postal sorting office.

The day came and despite my initial misgivings the interview went swimmingly. As an alcoholic, I find these minor islands of victory in my ocean of disappointments are most rewardingly punctuated by getting at least half-drunk, sometimes with others, but more often on my own with a newspaper for company (in the absence of which I am perfectly happy staring vacantly at pub walls, carpets and furniture.) This was one such occasion.

I knew my state benefit money would only stretch to six or seven pints of export strength lager at the most, so I had restricted the speed of my intake accordingly. By the end of the fourth, the drink was having its more familiar effects on my behaviour and general demeanour- the belching, the heartburn, the seemingly constant need to urinate, et cetera.

“Alright lover?”

In hindsight, I think I foresaw how the day was going to pan out. With its gammy leg, wildly skewwhiff left eye and Dunlop midriff, the specimen in front of me more closely resembled an obese pirate than it did a female. But I was fairly desperate at the time- willingness to debase oneself in one area, specifically employment, often leads to the sacrifice of dignity in other parts of one’s life.

After a few drinks I made the necessary noises and it proved relatively easy to convince this whale to come back to my parents’ house. That’s right, I still live with my parents at the age of thirty, because I am a hopeless piss-artist.

My parents are in their late fifties and, though inebriated, I was vaguely aware that they wouldn’t appreciate the presence of a twenty-stone house guest, let alone a twenty-stone house guest having sexual relations with their drunken son.

I hustled this hippopotamus upstairs to the bedroom I have occupied since childhood. This was not as difficult as I’d feared, despite its enormous girth. But then disaster struck- I needed a slash. Badly.

“Stay in here. And whatever you do, DON’T  have any contact with the other members of my family.”

Operation Urination having been a complete success, I made my way back upstairs. Sure enough, the ogre I had charmed was sitting on the parental bed. I later learned she had apparently mistaken my mother for a housemate and cheerfully enquired “who are you then?”

Mortified, I hastily manoeuvred this monument to morbidity back to my bedroom, where I proceeded to noisily copulate with it. I do not remember a great deal of this part of the episode-and I suspect that may be for the best.

What I do remember, though, was hearing my middle class, middle-aged parents calling my name from downstairs and adding that they’d “like a word with me.”

The Beast never darkened our doorstep again.

495 words