Lottery wins and Bestival

Once again, the televised holocaust that is Eastenders has forced me to retreat, a broken man, to bitch and moan like a bitter child into my blog. I can think of no sound explanation as to why any sane person would watch this abomination, outside perhaps, of a coma or sincerely expressed death threat. As far as I can tell, all that has been filmed is a horde of screeching harpies and shit flinging apes, locked together in a brutal pit of despair until all that remains is a steaming pile of crow pecked corpses.

I´ve been somewhat distracted this week, my dreams still haunted by the sight of that sledge, hurtling murderously towards my face. That´s what I´ve been using as an excuse for my night time incontinence this week anyway. Other than that, work has even more than usual been making the idea of a crippling car accident, a dream like fantasy paradise. I shouldn´t complain though of course, I could be down a mine, on a street corner or, God-forbid, working in Aldershot. The problem is, I can´t help but think I deserve a lottery win. I may not have given up everything to work for the Peace Corps, I don´t help out in a soup kitchen, look after sick animals, or even be a particularly nice person, but damn it, I´ve got it coming to me. Not that I even play the lottery, my hopes are banked entirely on having a winning ticket posted to me, or finding one stuck to the sole of my shoe. Though thinking about it, the odds of that happening don´t seem that much more extreme than winning the thing via more traditional methods. Once you get into those sort of odds it really doesn´t add any extra layer of absurdity, like my phone call from Cheryl Cole, it´s just not going to happen.

To edge cautiously towards a more optomistic view, I have made the exciting purchase of Bestival tickets this week. I am reliably informed that I went two years ago but my memory, or lack thereof, makes a convincing case for the opposition. Looking through the photographic evidence, I could well have been at the Battle of the Somme in fancy dress. There was, on the first morning, the equivilant rain fall of that experienced by the Brazilian rainforest during the 1980´s. We woke on the Saturday to find our feet in a puddle which had formed at the end of our incredibly poorly placed tent, having seeped in through the tear made by a man on so many drugs he no longer appeared even remotely human. He had, presumably lost and confused, stumbled across our pitch and tried to make a nest out of our outer sheet. Upon returning to find this fetid cock, wrapped in the brutalised remnants of our only protection from the pounding elements, I was typically compassionate and understanding of his condition. By which I mean I was able, barely, to prevent myself from bludeoning him to death with the nearest available blunt instrument and using his skin to repair the damage he had so spectacularly created.

So, waking sog and miserable, I consoled myself with breakfast of vodka and the rapid ingestion of as many intoxicants as I could cram into every orifice. My girlfriend decided she preferred to go down a different route initially, chosing instead to sit in a patch of mud and cry hysterically, but she soon came around. I can´t wait for this year...