Picture from Uproxx
I haven't had a lot of luck with my stomach since I started taking anti-depressants in January, in fact I could barely leave the house in the first week as they worked their way into my system. Until then I had got a lot better with my habits, time was that I couldn't eat and go straight outside. For about the last two months I have been (possibly dangerously) self-medicating by taking one diarrhoea preventative tablet every morning, just to solid things up a bit and stop even the shortest walk becoming test of muscle strength. As a result of this I have had the opposite problem, and carried around an understandably bloated feeling. On the upside, I would rather be bloated and uncomfortable than be scared to cough with too much velocity lest I shit myself. While I have been taking these tablets I have slowly learned to trust a fart again, although I am sure that the young ladies who work the till at Savers have some unflattering arse-gravy related nickname for me. My morning trip to said shop entails buying four cans of cheap energy drink, Ibuprofen (although mildly addicted they do help with persistent back and shoulder pain), and a weekly packet of diarrhoea tablets - do I look like I know how to party or what? When I think back to my youthful recreational drug use when I could function on a joint before getting out of bed and take enough speed to stay awake all weekend I wonder when I got old. Nowadays I can't drink chamomile tea after six o'clock in the evening if I have plans for the next day.
Anyway, I had come to realise that self-medication isn't the wisest and safest way to deal with a problem so stopped taking them and for the last two days have suffered no ill effects despite my worries. I have been struggling to unload as a result of the tablets possibly still being in my system, along with almost everything I have eaten for the past few weeks. I realise that this isn't the nicest blog I have ever written and apologise if you are eating while reading.
Last night I went to the Kimberley Sessions, a regular live music night hosted by my friend Bainy whose idea it was (with others) to create a scene outside of the bright lights of the city. It is always a great night in a friendly atmosphere and leads to discoveries of new singers with some more established acts thrown in. Cibele opened the show and Satnam's Tash headlined. As far a new discoveries were concerned, a new discovery to me at least, a young singer called Paige did a covers set (it is a pub after all and it got the crowd on side with some well known favourites) and had the most amazing voice I have heard for ages.
I drank three pints of a real ale I can't remember the name of (so it must have been good eh? Only kidding, I wasn't drunk) and the middle one tasted as if the barrel was about to go off. As I had just negotiated my way back to my seat and the next act was starting I simply couldn't be arsed going back to complain and just put up with it. The third pint was back to normal so I gather my prediction that the barrel needed changing was correct. I didn't want to be one of those real ale pricks who pick fault with every little part of a pint and it was too busy to give the bar staff any hassle. People often say that we should bring back National Service but I have a better idea, everyone should do at least a year working behind the bar to teach a bit of respect. I used to quite enjoy pub work and fortunately was quite good at dealing with a certain type of customer, let's call them 'cunts', who treated bar staff as the lowest form of life. Even now I always take my glass back to the bar and don't do any of the annoying behaviours; asking for Guinness last, ordering your round in stages, taking too long to pay, waving money. If everyone did a year of bar work then society as a whole would be far more polite.
Talking of the traditional real ale pillock, one pub I worked in sold a regular ale and several revolving cask beers. The regular beer was in a bigger barrel that hardly needed changing because the drip trays used to be emptied into it. One customer used to drink this beer despite constantly picking fault. One day the unthinkable happened and we had to change the barrel. I cleaned the line and connected the new barrel, knowing that there was nothing this old bugger could complain about as he was about to drink pure IPA as the brewery intended it to taste, pulled through a clean line. He took one sip, pulled a face and declared "I'm not drinking that shit" and left, never to enter the pub again.
Maybe it was a result of my less than quality pint, but the first cigarette I smoked this morning provoked a feeling in my stomach that seemed to kick everything into gear. Thankfully Mandi had left the house for work as I didn't even have time to shut the bathroom door behind me before having the most undignified unloading I have had in ages. I felt as light as a feather afterwards.
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The latest episode of The Random Saturday Sessions is here.
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