Sans Souci

We lost. But, by god, we played well. We all managed to conceal our nerves and play the best set we could possibly play. I walked off stage and thought to myself, 'if we lose, there's nothing we could've done better.' I'm not going to get into 'the obvious choice', nor 'the corporate dollar being more important than the musicality of a band'. For me to bring it up after losing would be cheap, and nasty. Like a polyester suit. Like a cheap watch. I want to hold my head up high, clutch on to my dignity, and say things like 'sometimes losing is the real winner', or 'there's more to be learnt by ...' Et cetera. It was such a load off, that I immediately got very sick. I had a few scotches, went home and fell on my face. My throat was burning enough for me to think about going to Emergency, but instead I gargled sea-salt and waited until I fell asleep. I woke up the next day so filled with snot, that I swear to god my chest felt like gelatin. I couldn't move. One of the kitchen staff heard my moans upstairs, and made me give her 10 dollars. She returned an hour later with The-Chicken-Soup-That-Saved-My-Life. Aren't men pathetic when it comes to a common cold. They behave like they're on their death-bed. They bitch and moan, and bang on about their suffering as if each word might be their last. It's ridiculous. Living on my own is good for that reason. I can hide my shame, no one hears my gurgled cries, my wish for a quick painless death, my pointless questions: 'Why me?' 'Why don't I feel better than this?' Et cetera. It's been no drinking, and all recovery since then. Couch. Blankets. Water. Soup. Phone calls. The odd visit. And now on Sunday, I feel a little better. Enough for the coffee and cigarette breakfast that has been my staple for so long. But maybe not enough for the vodka that I'd like. In time. I like Sundays. They're my favourite day by far. I like the slow nature of them. I would imagine road rage would be halved. People would be more accepting of others taking their time. Children still annoy me, but not as much it would seem. Sans Souci