Last Friday was just another average Friday night in Cardiff. Or so I thought.
There I was, all dressed and ready to go to the pub. So I left my front door – only to find a policewoman about to ring my doorbell. And she asked if I was me – well, of course I’m me, who else am I? – so she then told me that my car had been broken into. Again. Which makes the sixth crime to deal with my transportation – and the second car break-in in a week right outside my front door.
Oddly, it’d stood there unmoving, broken for three months. I’d taken it to a garage earlier in the week, who charged me £120 to install a £30 battery, I’d taken it back that night, and voila it got broken into. The silly thing is that (aside from the fact they just opened the door) they couldn’t find anything worth stealing. Indeed, they left behind some rizla papers and a sunglasses case. As yer do.
So after an hour of to’ing and fro’ing with the police, I was off to the pub. Only to find that the traditional Friday Night Gang were no longer there – to be fair, it’d been at least a year since I’d last gone, and they’ve probably all gotten engaged or something. Fortunately, after some intensive phoning and re-dialling, I find someone else who fancies going to the pub. So I head off to his local.
On the way, two cars screech past me into a dead-end junction, one guy jumps out and just legs it past me down the road, while another guy shouts at him to come back using suitably sweary language. The way the cars screeched and roared, I had to assume it was a drug deal gone wrong or something.
I finally reach the safety of the pub with my mate. We have a pint, then go up to the bar. Where the barmaid asks me if we noticed the Indian gentleman who’d popped into the pub earlier. Because apparently he’d come in with someone else, who had a GUN stuck to his back, and was being forced into the pub before his car got car-jacked or something. I’m not too sure. And neither was the barmaid. Who decided to solicit extra protection by getting her 14-year-old son (in his PJs) to come down from playing with his X-Box or whatever to scan the local streets for any sign of crime.
Three pints of Brains bitter (3.7% alcohol, fact fans) and a small sherry later, I’m back home doing a great impersonation of a very drunk person.
The next morning, I emerge with a splitting headache, all the signs of a hangover and the kitchen looks as if a very drunk person had tried to cook two packets of Ramen noodles while blindfold and tied to a chair. Unfortunately, I have to immediately jump on a train for four hours voyaging to North Wales. A cup of British Rail tea has never felt so good in my entire life.
Heaven knows how I’m going to get through 36 hours of drinking this weekend…