A pounding headache, a bellyful of vomit, Furphy, and regret, and a distinct sense of existential malaise probably won’t be enough to stop a certain young Brisbanite from doing it all again to himself tonight - except this time, it’s Saturday night, instead of Friday.
And he might kick things off at a mate’s place, instead of on his hands and knees in the work bathrooms at 8pm after a boozy lunch went hideously awry.
‘Oohf baboof,’ muttered the local man, Andrew Stackley (21), whose experiences last night were almost as cliched and boring as the concept behind this article. Post-work beers, the streets of Eagle Street (actually only one) became his colosseum for the night, as this gladiator charged through schooners like Shane Webcke through a NSW defensive line.
But come Saturday morning, as he reviews the sickeningly confident texts he sent to mutual female acquaintances last night, he fires off a few of his own to the boys’ group chat, humorously named ‘Brad’s not gay but’ (referring to an acquaintance Brad who wore a pink shirt to pre-drinks literally once).
‘Fuck me, regretting last night fellas,’ wrote Andrew, his shaking thumbs barely able to press the keys displayed on the screen of his cracked iPhone 5C (like those weird coloured plastic ones, it’s fucking weird, hey). After no replies from any of the so-called ‘fellas’ for well over fifteen minutes, Andrew decided to pick himself up off the stinking couch in his stinking West End sharehouse and march round the corner for a coffee.
But the basic physiological process of human movement proved too much for this shell of a man, as he collapsed back down into a heap in the living room floor.
There have been stained puddles of piss with more dignity and self-respect than this man.
But nothing will stop him hitting the turps again tonight, as he foolishly believes hair of the dog will fix him, when what he probably needs is quite serious therapy and the love of someone who will appreciate him for the failure of a man he will always be.
Just another lighthearted bit of reporting from your friends, enemies, and needlessly flamboyant frenemies here at The Obiter HQ.
No more to come.