Beshemoth’s reprise birthday celebrations

At least my second day of being a whole year older was quite nice. The pain was gone – well, not gone, but it was certainly reduced to a level where I didn’t even want to take any painkillers, and laughed in its face; which is a nice change from it laughing in my actual face all the sodding time.

Granted, I laughed in the face of pain yesterday, but that was only because I smacked my funny-bone off the canteen doors, and there was that awful, awful moment between registering that it hurt and the knowledge that it was going to start increasing in hurt and carry on from there, and I fell all over the place in hilarity because it was just nothing in comparison to what my tooth-socket was doing.

And everyone looked at me funny, oops.

Also the swelling in my face had gone down so much that a vertical axis of symmetry was an achievable goal! Which means I have to stop wearing odd socks, I guess. The relief is like the silence you get on diving into a nice, cool swimming pool after being mobbed by screaming kids all week. (Assuming that, for some reason, the pool is not also full of screaming kids, who are kicking you in the shins. And when I am in a pool full of kids, this is what they do. This is why I don’t swim much.)

So I was feeling pretty damn pleased with myself – until I got to work and got the email saying the Bossman has been awake all night in screaming pain himself and had to check into an emergency doctor’s. Oh come on, can we just have a day when neither of us is horrendous amounts of discomfort already?

I felt obscurely guilty about that. And I feel rather less obscurely guilty about seguing straight into ‘nice things that happened to me today’, but it ain’t really today cos I haven’t got me arse in gear to even keep up with me own life for… three weeks, but because I have no idea what to say except ‘so I felt dead guilty’, I will… move right along. And blame the entirely different pain I am undergoing right now!

Anyway, me Colleague of Skull Scarves returned and took me out for belated birthday tapas, aww. And indeed, nice call, I am rapidly becoming a connoisseur of the various things that go well with the constant taste of clove oil (chorizo: yes. Deep-fried aubergines: somewhat. Chicken in all its many forms including flavoured crisps: not one bit). And I had a nice relaxing Friday evening doing nothing productive whatsoever, just because I could, not because I couldn’t actually hack anything more taxing.

I opened me cards, I dithered mightily about where to put them. I kinda don’t go in my room except to sleep, in case it turns out I should be tidying it, or worse, in case I end up just in my room all the time; and I don’t want to put them in the lounge cos I rarely go in there either, on account of it Says So in the ad for the spare room; well, okay, because of the look of outright betrayal on my lodger’s face whenever I am in there to pot plants or hang washing or, you know, clean up after him. And also because I don’t want to give my lodger the impression that I’m trying to rub my having a birthday in his face. Not after the look he gave me earlier in the week, when he gave his notice mid-month and I was trying to work out rent owed versus deposit owed, and couldn’t do it, so I said, Sorry, had botched surgery, I’m either off my face on painkillers or basic pain all this week, no maths for me; and he gave me this look like, Why Are You Even Bothering Me With This Pathetic Mortal Shit Minutiae Of Your Life (rather than offering to take the bin out for once, as I had kinda hoped) so I felt embarrassed and went and hid in the studio for the rest of the evening. Which is rather pathetic, but there you go. Leave no shameful secret uncovered for the internet to see! Or something.

The cards came to live in the studio with me, in the end, where I can at least see them for a while before it gets a bit more pathetic and I have to take them all down again.

The rest of the wine came to live with me in the studio too, but for rather less time than the cards, hurrah.

So, another low-key non-birthday day, but on the plus side, I feel human again, which I am currently finding a highly recommendable state.

And not a moment too soon, for Saturday dawned bright and… well, early, at any rate, and I had to trog on up the Allittlement and survey the damage and water things and do labour, which I found quite difficult, thanks EVER so much Mr Crappy Dentist. I staggered home around half ten, had a shower, got dolled up to the nines and started on the pink shampagne. At which point the Bossman turned up with cards and presents and a gigantic pink cupcake with stars on and drank pink shampagne too and took me out for lunch, awww. I had to get entirely un-dolled up from the nines for it though; apparently stockings with ribbons on are not so much for one in the afternoon. I despair of ever getting a grip on my own epoch.

And then we had to race into town to take pictures of these mittens with various ‘landmarks’* before going to the cinema. For lo, while off my face with pain, I had promised I would organise some sort of birthday Do regardless, so I staggered one out, namely; ‘meet in cheap pub in town’. And then screwed up organising a guestlist. Alas, a rather alarming percentage of the few people I did manage to invite, promptly informed me that the very day I had picked for it was their birthday and went, Oi! so I felt bad and offered to come to at least one of theirs as well. Which is at the cinema. Fine. Around now, I am mostly able to deal with being shepherded somewhere, not doing the shepherding, and that’s when I am sober.

*(Look, it’s really complicated. I’m doing a favour for someone I’ve never met, and I thought it was a simple favour, albeit one I don’t really understand, but it keeps getting more and more complicated. Possibly due to current inability to organise pissup in brewery.)

Not only is said event in the cinema, it is in the arty cinema, which meant no pick’n’mix, to the Bossman’s horror (and we both realised it at exactly the same moment too, hee). Not to worry, I said. It’s some sort of 70’s noir sci-fi thing starring Harvey Keitel, picked by a guy who does noir comics for a living, it will be like Tron and Bladerunner and Reservoir Dogs all at the same time!

Naturally, it was exactly nothing like that at all.

It did have some nice scenery of Glasgow tenements and industrial wasteland, many of which may still be around today only with more sculptured haircuts loitering around them, but, um. Yeah. Well. I had my cultural boundaries expanded, which is Good For Me.

It Made Me Want To Slit My Wrists, said the Bossman. Do Not Let Me Walk Into Traffic In Despair.

Well, okay, that too.

After this, the birthday boy, who had declined the invite to me pub shenanigans (if any were to be found), in favour of a rather more up-market establishment, went off to his pub and we went off to ours and I felt a bit… like the sort of tosser who has a birthday in a Wetherspoons, and nobody attends,really. For some reason.

However! Lots of people did attend and it was all very lovely and they were all very lovely, and now I have a bottle of pink gin and a garden gnome shaped like a candle (or vice versa) courtesy of Beer and I didn’t buy a single drink all night, thanks to Whisky and the Bossman (who had apparently decided that I Shall Not Put My Hand In My Pocket All Night, Oh Yes and I am thus rather shafted when it comes to rolling out the barrel for his birthday) and rather too many other people really, awww bless. It’s been so long, I can’t remember everyone’s pseudonym, sorry guys.

So it was in somewhat of a merry mood that I rolled down the road, which is pretty good going considering my unfortunate tendency to wallow in melancholy and also the film we had seen earlier. Which didn’t wallow so much as go scuba diving. By now, I had gone past ‘being unable to shepherd anyone anywhere’ to ‘meandering down the road like a whole flock of easily-distracted sheep’ so it was fortunate that the Bossman, though even merrier than I was, was determined to play sheepdog.

Despite my insisting, on the way in, that we get return train tickets and an early night, that plan was long gone, so he insisted we get a taxi home from outside the Classic Grand; where I know fine there is no taxi rank at all, but whatever. Once there, he announced we were all going clubbing instead and he was paying for all, (with the air of a Bond villain revealing a cunning plan, too, but hey, it was more than I was capable of at that point). Case in point: we instantly lost everyone else we had entered with, and I had to roam around in three jackets all night because I didn’t trust myself with a cloakroom ticket. The dressing-to-the-nines clothes, which I had gamely carried everywhere with me, along with these mittens, never got brought out again, so I was out, Old… and in blue jeans in a Goth environment. Whoops.

I was rather surprised when we met up with the birthday boy again. I shouldn’t have been, because he’d said he was going clubbing, but then again, so did I, except I didn’t believe it for a minute. Having found him, I promptly lost the Bossman, but we did spot him only seconds later, on the dancefloor with these two other lassies. That is outrageous! said the birthday boy, very spiritedly in my defence (I myself was vastly amused, as only the easily-amused can be) and very gallantly took my hand and led me onto a different part of the dancefloor to repay this insult. I feared trouble would brew before the night was out.

And how! I shall draw a veil over most of it, except to say, when the Bossman surfaced around eight in the morning, moaning and calling for painkillers and groaned and asked if he did anything embarrassing, I said (truthfully) that he had not, but I was a bit surprised when he dragged me up and air-guitared to Bon Jovi, a band I was under the impression he hated; at which point he put a pillow over his face and howled in anguish.

So that was a rather satisfactory birthday weekend, all in all. Especially for one I did not have great hopes for and put practically no effort into!

The next one, of course, will be awful, because I have my eye set on a week-long Medieval festival in Estonia, and a place where you can fire a range of automatic rifles at a souvenir T-shirt. Mark my words, it shall not come to pass, and if it does, it will go horribly awry.

However. My birthday was apparently not over yet, because on Sunday we went out to the Rastlin’.  And because I cannot keep up with even my own life, which is possibly the most epic fail Of All Time, I will say that the highlight was not only Mikey Whiplash in a looong PVC skirt (which was surprisingly flattering); but Mikey Whiplash in a short PVC skirt; but actually Mikey Whiplash in a short PVC skirt getting beaten up by the Russian Psycho; but since this happened on a very narrow balcony right in front of me, the inevitable finally happened – Mikey Whiplashwent into my pint (as he went over the balcony rail), and my pint went into my pocket.

Also: Jeebus, these guys look large upon the ‘stage’; they are four feet wide in real life. Such as when their feet are in your face. God, not the tooth socket!

Mercifully not the pocket with my phone and cheapy MP3 player and skins in. The one with my train ticket home in. All I can say is, I am shocked it was not Jester wot dunnit, cos he’s come alarmingly close almost every time I’ve attended.

Although I was very happy when he suddenly appeared, singing Congratulations off-key and surprising most present, and challenged Mikey Whiplash to, next time, come ‘finish him off’ (at which point everyone started laughing and so did he, fnar). Whee for next time, it will be SO EPIC, and I don’t even care who wins!

And then I was even happier at the finale when BT Gunn fought off a heroic attempt at the championship belt by Lionheart – and did I ever think Lionheart was gonna win? Yes! Do not get me wrong, I love BT Gunn more, and BT Gunn is awesome, but I could Tell, for tonight, his hair was not yellow and green and purple and up in a topknot at all, so I knew the Flame Had Passed On.

So it made sense when, during his photocall as the reigning champion, the lights went out and there were mere flash-lit blips of both him and Lionheart being beat up from behind by… Red Lightning. Who is suddenly back from retirement and has now got the title by Foul Play. And the crowd went FUCKING APESHIT with love, though he is the Bad Guy.

God, I love the Rastlin’. My new goal of the moment is to find out: do the players get the whole season’s stories handed to them, or do they all sit and work it out together, or is there an overall Arc and they get to sort the details themselves before getting down to the fine art of what happens in the ring that night; who hates who and who has a grudge and who will turn against whom at the last moment?

It sounds like SO much fun!

And there we go, the Bossman informs me there will be a Lassies’ Rastlin’ Movement coming soon to a town near me. And I should sign up. And I so, so would. But I just couldn’t handle a crowd even if I was playing a ‘Face’ and I am fairly sure, given my looks, I would play a Heel and be booed lots and I am thirty-gargle years old and still not ready for masses of punters screaming abuse at me.

…sounds like I should do it for the lulz, right? 😦


About beshemoth

Mainly making art, making wine, writing and gardening. Having a life only as the above allows.
This entry was posted in a horse so high I need a parachute, forever coming down with something, so much for plan b, social events, wrastlin'!. Bookmark the permalink.

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