Recently the wagon has been dragging me along behind it, face-down

and it's big and dark and spins with the mud caking to your knees and because you're fucked it's all a tragedy really, ball-ache cold with vodka tears pissing out, burble of sick in your throat, cold from the booze. And you fucking reek of it now because seven brandy shots two pints two beer bottles (the ones that cheating fuck left at your mate's house and he fed you gleefully because you were always his favourite) a double gin and ginger and that fatal half bottle of vodka you gulped down like bleach you lie flat on your back and don't scream. Ten minutes later with that pizza you ate a lumpy orange catastrophe on the floor you smile at the taxi man and for some reason the poor bastard lets you in and you wake up next morning with Her looming over you like a Greek statue, Diana, and you curled like an egg in her Dad's bed, bruised in your Guinness boxers, waiting for the tide and it doesn't come because she sits down and gives you a look very much like pity and you think, Christ, this has to stop.