Well happy new year, Internet.
I have been off work for the past week, which in essence, should've been filled with parties all night long every night of the week, but instead was fraught with migraines.
I don't usually get migraines, and if I do it's once every two years.
It starts with the blurry vision, slurred speech, and I know if I don't swallow some fuck off hectic painkillers, the pain is going to annihilate me.
I had three this past week, starting on Christmas Day (with the Brit holding back my hair as I yacked into a bucket), and ending with a cataclysmic one yesterday, where my entire neck went stiff.
It's been wicked.
I think it's my body shutting down after a crazy year involving 1 x emigration, 1 x new job, 1 x new course, 1 x new house, 1 x new everything.
Albeit, I've had the Brit and Wayne & Dwayne to tide me over. Look at them. Fuck me they're cute.
So Dwayne looks like a squirrel. I'm convinced he's half squirrel, and the
Him and Wayne are inseparable. Best of mates, if not noisy little farkers when they're fighting over carrot wheels together.
Getting a Dwayne for Wayne was the best thing we did.
Then there was Essex.
Which is where, evidently, we were for new year.
It is still a part of Britain I never wished to see; it really is everything that people say it is.
We went because friends of ours have a holiday place there. So we thought, 'group of us, big house party.' So off we went to Clacton-on-Sea. This dreary little coastal town, typical British seaside resort that has seen better days and is now filled with juvenile delinquents and retired people.
We went to a club to see the new year in, and like clockwork, saw two fights. With coppers and blood on the scene. I also had a traumatic experience in the female bogs.
One woman pushing her hand under my stall insisting I hand her my bog roll. ("I don't have any! I am drip drying, now leave me alone!")
She went on and on. The women in there were fighting and calling each other cunts, one was yacking, and they were all wearing 6000 litres of makeup, white stilettos and dresses that your Dad would call, conservatively, 'a belt.'
It was interesting. And all the rumours about Essex are true.