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Monday, 9 May 2011

The Distraction and the Drunk.

Lot's of bad noise. I come to an hour later and realise that a drunken trawler man has been spitting words into my face.
Swearing? Plenty. His phlegm is building up around the snarling beard as he finishes his rant about filthy drunken sailors. I don't know how much longer I can maintain. With any luck he'll choke soon. Explaining to the police the corpse on the floor would be much more easier than trying to listen to this creature.
"I would've tried resuscitating him officer, I just couldn't be bothered to listen to him for much longer. No officer I did not realise by placing a bag over his face he would not be able to talk, I mean breathe."
Yes, that will work.

What's this now? he's asking my age. Again. I try to answer but he's off again.

The minutes roll by.

The white noise I deployed to put up with this crap has started to wane. He's talking about his days of beam trawling out of Grimsby, more noise. '...fucked every woman I could lay my effing hands on...'

I know, I'll pick up my computer and start writing. That'll show him just how little I care. Yes, focus Thom.

'...and she was fucking my best mate IN MY BED! MY BED that I paid for...It's different for me, I sez, I was at sea!'

Good, he's tiring himself out.

.'..I'm an alcoholic yer know, but I'll keep that to meself...'

I wish you would mate.

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