Good evening.

Today was a fairly interesting day by my newly revised and alarmingly low standards. First I attemted to remove some of the stuff cluttering up my room and put it in the attic, but got distracted by the things that were already in the attic and ended up bringing them down instead of putting more up.... Then i went to town to meet the finance lady at the Art College and discuss pay etc. Turns out they want to pay me a bit more than I was expecting so that's a bargain. :)

Then i went into town and met Mike and Chris, two old friends, and their mate Darren. We headed to the pub and I ordered a pint (of Coke) and proceeded to rule the pool table. Then a man came over and asked if he could play. "Sure" I say, and being as i have just won the last game I jump up to play him. At first he seems fairly normal, if a little drmatic with his gestures of approval or condolance over the outcome of each of my shots... Then I start to notice that actually he's not very "normal" at all. In fact he's decidedly odd. Every now and then he'd suddenly emit very loud and innapropriate squealing noises, and then say "I'm good in' I?" (This is hereford speak for "I'm good aren't I?") with a big grin on his face. This wouldn't be so odd if it wasnt for the fact that I had just whupped his arse. "But you lost..." I say. "Yeah, but you was lucky wun you?" he suggests enthusiastically. "Ummm, yeah, I guess so", I say, starting to feel a little awkward as a realise that my three pals are all desperately trying not laugh out loud behind him. It has become clear that he's not just a wierdo, he's actually... ummm, what's the PC word these days?..... mentally challenged?.... Oh I don't know, it used to be called "backward" when I was a kid.... you know what I mean. Anyway, lovely bloke, just a bit of handful once he got excited.

After that first game he just wouldn't give up and kept coming and insisting on another game. In the end it all became bit too much so we headed to the Barrels, another pub on the other side of town. I had to move my car, and when i arrived my friends were already deep in conversation with another nutcase! This one was of the manic variety, and he kept doing word assosiation rapid-fire monolouges that would put Robin Williams to shame. But he seemed friendly enough, and when he offered to buy us all a drink his status as a "good bloke" was confirmed. He's a scruffy bastard. Green bomber jacket, mohawk hairdo. Then I notice his trousers and shoes. Straight black trousers and simple but shiny black leather shoes. "These are from the nick!", he says, pointing at the shoes. "I just got out, done a couple a munfs in Glouscester, they make em there ya know they make all sorts in all the diffren prisons an at..". He is wildly animated and keeps jumping from foot to foot and grinning as he bombards us with seemingly unrelated information at 100 miles and hour. Every time he leaves the room he seems to return with 2 pints of guinness. One he puts down somewhere in the room and the other he drinks. Then he returns with another 2 pints and does the same thing. Soon there are 3 untouched pints of Guinness sitting at different tables around the room! At some point he starts talking about how he needs to go across town to buy some weed and how he's going to be leaving any minute, but never quite does.

Half an hour later I decide it's time for me to head off, but as I start to say my goodbyes he jumps in. "What?! You can't go! We're gonna have a party here in a bit when i get back!!". "Sorry", I say, trying to think of a good excuse. "I've got to get the car back to my mum cos she needs it"..... 'What?! You've got a car?! Fuck! And there's me about to get a taxi! Can I have a lift then? Sorted! your goin that way int ya? Where you goin?"... "I'm going to Madley", i say, trying to remember where he wanted to go and if it's on my way and how I can avoid taking him there. "Perfect!!", he says. "I'm tryin ta get to the Oval, it's on the way innit?!". He's right, it is on my way. Suddenly i remember how 3 days ago I was trying to hitch to town for my job interview after trying to catch the bus with zero money in my pocket, and how all those bastard drivers with empty cars kept zooming straight past me without so much as a wave.... and here I was being a complete hippocrite and trying wriggle out of doing the same myself. "Ok, no worries mate, let's go", I say, getting up and saying my goodbyes. Out in the street we start heading towards the car. "Hang on a minute mate, I've just gotta rush in 'ere for a sec", he says, darting into the chemist (drug store). He comes out moments later and runs to catch up with me. "Sorry mate, just had to get a few needles. Not for me mind, for me mate. I don't do it no more. Used to mind you, made a right mess of me arms I did". He pulls up his sleeve to show me his many syringe marks, and instead reveals a thousand self-inflicted lacerations on his forearm. The wounds look fairly fresh. "Did that to get out of prison!! Not bad eh?!", he tells me proudly. He then goes on to explain to me that he is actually a complete mental case who has been treated and given up on by some of the most hardcore psychiatric hospitals in Britain. "But these days I go mad in a good way like being all happy and stuff see?" he explains to me cheerily. We've arrived at the car. Who is this psycho that I've just offered a lift to?!! Oh well, best not to piss him off now i guess. Anyway, despite being a complete headcase who cuts up his arms, I'm still getting the feeling that he is indeed a very genuine and friendly headcase. We start to drive. A police car goes past and he ducks down in the seat covering his face. He said he just got out of prison. He didn't specifically say he was "let" out..... oh dear. I make it across town, listening to him jump between the state of the peruvian rainfoests, the SAS, how he crashed a Van on E's, and why murderers in the Nick are top blokes because they'll always give you a rizla if you need one. We arrive in Newton Farm council estate, and he asks me to drop him off. "Wait there a sec will ya", he asks. "I just need a lift back to the road cos there's loads of blokes round ere who hate me and if I saw one I would have to 'urt im". He goes inside, and I try to decide whether to make a break for it. Before I have time to think about it he's back out. "No weed in 'ereford" he says, jumping into the front seat with a pungent smelling spliff hanging out his mouth. "You can't smoke that in here, it's my mum's car", I say. "It's alright, it's not a ciggarette, it's herbal!", he says. Oh, right, well that's fine then.... 5 mins later we are apparantly past all of the other psychos that want to kill him who he would be forced to hurt should he spot them and at last he gets out again. "Cheers for the lift Billy!!! See you in the pub later yeah?". Mmmm, maybe.