Establishing the facts

Silence, like an egg, can be both golden and broken. Therefore, if one could see silence, would it be egg-shaped?

So, here we are in 2008. The Chinese Year of the Rat, which began late for me sometime around three in the afternoon, consciousness coming harshly with hurty head, dried out mouth and squinty eye. A hangover, weapons-grade.

Not surprising, really. Last night I ‘tied one on’ in glorious fashion.

T'was the New Year's Eve party in the back room of my local bar The Fox and Fanny that did it for me - a mere fifty notes the passport to a night of heavy revelry and mayhem with a gang of friends.

There were beers, spirits, cocktails, a DJ, drunken blokes grappling and sweating together, roaring, telling each other how much they loved each other, swearing undying allegiance, drunken girls dancing on tables, flashing their pants and being sick, laughing ‘til they cried, crying ‘til they laughed.

At one point I found myself seated on a chair, playing pretend drums to the DJ’s phat beats with my bare hands on three beer barrel tables I'd gathered together to look like a drum kit, bass drum achieved by tipping one over on its side.

Didn't go down too well with a girl sat at it whose drink went a-flying when I tipped it over. My offer to fetch a replacement beverage of her choice was met with a delicate response: 'Piss off, you fucking twat.'

Ah, these sweet rosy-cheeked North London girls, such a delicate way with words.

Afterwards, a few of us came back to mine to carry on the party. There was more booze, many illicit substances. The fact that I awoke fully dressed atop my bed would suggest I passed out at some point and my guests let themselves out.

Anyway, back to today and my hangover. I lay in bed for a bit, hot and fetid, sorry and sozzled, the thumping in my head ritualistically keeping the beat to the ghost of a song, a vindictive half-light seeping through and around my curtains as far beneath the sweaty, twisted mess of the duvet, a gaseous depth charge emphatically announced the state of my innards.

Not good.

Vague thoughts of getting up, having a wee, knocking back some Alka Seltzer and making a hot cup of tea rose silently through the deep still black waters of my mind, their focus becoming ever sharper until I hauled myself up and out of bed and set off unsteadily for the bathroom.

There was bitch red lipstick scrawled across the bathroom mirror. ‘You're a crack whore and yer kisses tate like piss'. Odd, but probably true. My reflection, a bleary apparition betwixt the make-up grafitti was fearsome, and my pee the tone of whisky.

Having popped some pills to ease my aching head, downed a litre of mineral water and knocked back a few strong teas, I still felt terrible and repaired to the sofa to laze about in front of the telly, debris from the party last night strewn everywhere. I couldn't be arsed to tidy up and dozed off. It was dark when I startled myself awake with a single loud snore.

I still felt rough.

I cleared the mess away, rolled a spliff, switched on my computer and sat hunched over the keyboard, a mug of hot tea cupped in my hands, pondering how to approach my first blog entry. More specifically, how I should briefly introduce myself to you.

This is what I came up with.

My name is Zacarias Bone (a good start). I’m 30 years old and thinking about growing my first beard, but haven’t come to a conclusion yet about how it may affect my friends psychologically. I’m the singer for the garage blues band Bo Molasses.

What else?

Oh yeah. I’ve got a girlfriend, called Zosia. She’s Polish. I’ve been with her on and off for about a year now. We met backstage at one of my band’s gigs. She came over and whispered conspiratorially in my ear that she likes to initiate sex with wrestling. My attention was instantly tweaked.

That same night I found myself back at hers. In her room, she said we would be doing it on the bare wooden floorboards because she’d burned her mattress the week before in a fit of rage. Before I could object, she had me pinned down.

What more can I say?

I’d like to tell you more about me as a person, about the kind of individual I am, the things I believe in, perhaps even the length of my old chap, but the truth is I can't be bothered at the moment. Perhaps it would be best if you find out more about me as my daily blog unfurls, like an old lady's long grey hair at bath time.

And besides, I’m not all that sure who I am anymore.

When I was a younger I knew exactly who I was and what I wanted out of life. I was a right cocky twerp. But somehow the years have gradually eroded my self-belief and these days, I often find myself standing as close to the mirror in my bathroom as possible, staring into my own vacant eyes desperately searching for clues, wondering who da fuck it is looking back at me.

Occasionally I glimpse the arrogantly confident person I used to be, or hear his far off cries desperately pleading for rescue from somewhere deep inside, his voice by turns loud then indistinct, like music blown by a howling gale. But just as suddenly the moment has passed and he’s gone and I’m be left alone again with my present self; a confused berk with a vacant grin who’s recently taken to rubbing himself down with his own excreta.

Actually, that last bit’s not true. Just thought I’d end my first post with a bold statement.