Guess who’s getting my vote?

2013-07-01 16:42

It’s the early hours of Monday morning. I’m lying on the couch. I’m on ceiling patrol.

Not the old familiar substance-driven kind. I should be so lucky. I’ve just woken up. I’m wide awake. The Confed Cup final is over. I’ve missed it.

I’ve gone and slept through the dream final. Spain versus Brazil. The beautiful game’s perennial underachievers come right up against the greatest football nation on the planet. Screw the street protests, the Fifa suits and Brazilian corruption. This one was about the football.

I blame myself for missing the game. Not the difference in time zones. Nor the midnight kickoff. It was my own weakness.

I don’t work Mondays. Depraved late-night Sundays are my forte. Especially when the Ghenginator is in town, and there’s footie going.

Sunday I broke my own rules. Dropped drinking with the Ghenginator for moving furniture for the current Mrs Harper. Again. By the time I’m done with my beast-of-burden gig I’m stinking of all the liquor I’ve sweated out. I’m half dead. There’s a lump above my left eye from walking into a wall while hauling the base of a bed.

The iPhone goes. It’s the Ghenginator. I pull a gutless move. I hit the kill switch on the side (a beautiful feature, if you ask me). I’ll watch the game on the couch.

I make it through the semis. I’m thinking I’m clever. All this lovely football, sober(ish) in the comfort of my own home. Me on one couch and Small James on the other... father-son bonding, and all that.

A few minutes later Bacchus gets payback for my cowardice. I’m man down. Dead. I’m sounding like a walrus while Jesus Navvas and company are getting a hammering. I come to shortly after the medals are handed out. It’s punishment I deserve.

Ceiling duty it is. It’s too late to go drinking. Cool Runnings will close long before I’m drunk enough to sleep. Casino drinking comes with hazards like roulette.

I wander about online. I find the Dagga Party manifesto. It’s not as much fun as it sounds. Too many links to follow, not enough pictures. No scratch-and-sniff section. Far too complicated for the average stoner.

But from where I’m lying, they make lots of sense. More than all the straight punters put together. A very simple vote for us and we’ll allow you to skin up a spliff in peace. No more ceiling duty. Ever.

Guess who’s getting my vote?

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