Deebs versus Spider: Requiem

Little known fact, beloved reader of nonsensical ramblings o' mine: I'm bloody terrified of spiders. Honest to fuck, I cannot handle the presence of the little blighters in my life. I'm a frequent checker of room corners on entry, just to be sure of my own continued survival.

Yes, I am aware that Irish spiders are not a life-threatening, man-eating, baby-baiting or badger-slapping bunch, but it is entirely probable that I will die in the throws of some manner of spaz-attack brought on by their being nearby visible. I present the following two exhibits as evidence-

Exhibit A

I once, having completed a hypothermic session of canoeing at a local club, had a long, warm shower featuring the unexpected sighting of a piece of dirt on the back of my left shoulder. Odd. I decided it best to continue the cleansing process already under way by removing said dirt from my person. The dirt had other ideas. It moved. I squealed the squeal of a banshee stubbing her toe on a castrato choir. I flailed the flail of a Parkinson's suffererer having an epileptic fit in a German discotheque while trying to communicate through mime and hand gesture alone that they were feeling a tad shaky. And then I exited the shower, not so much by choice as much as the will of gravity. Lying naked and embarrassed on my back with only the now missing spider to share my shame, I resolved never to wash again.

Exhibit B

The following is a legitimate transcript of an internet based chat consisting, as it did, solely of textual communiques to an amigo. A blow by blow account of my reaction to spotting a creature in my periphery, I assure you that this was legitimate and occurred in the space of probably just under ten minutes. Read on at my peril....

• I'm stalking a resilient spider across the room. Pray for me.
• It's watching....waiting....
• I'm sweating
• ....barely breathing
• Playing dead....badly, obviously. What with all the sweat (I fear it shall form a pool to work as leisure facilities for my arachnid foe)
• It's on carpet, right at the join
  All I've got is newspaper
  It's like he knows!
• He's Switzerland right now....with diplomatic immunity. Dear God, are those tiny "diplomatic plates" on his back legs? Is he wearing a monocle!?
• He can read my thoughts. I know it.
• If he moves, I'm gonna lose my shit....
• ....
• ....still motionless....
• "Clever girl". If another fucker attacks me from the side while I'm watching this one....
• Is he....?....he is....he's doing the backstroke in that ever-expanding pool of sweat. How did he find those armbands?
• I need to fetch the Guinness Book of Records. That'll finish this prick!
• AH FUCK!
• Hyperventilating....he's toast
• It was like that seen in Platoon:
  There was slow motion, blood, epic music (in my mind) and, of course, the famous "lifting the curtain to flush out the enemy" scene. Some broad was wailing uncontrollably somewhere, and then my face was all wet, mysteriously.
  
  Now he lies crushed under a newspaper to mark the spot.
  
  Let that be a lesson to the rest of you arachnids!
• I'm not checking to see if he's definitely dead under there. If he still lives, he is my better. May the atheism God have mercy on all of us.
• What if he's just the front-line spider? The scout? The red uniform? Maybe there's more!?
  
• My clothes! Upstairs. On the floor. So many of them....So. Many. Places to hide!
  
  HELP
  ME

Top Hats & Alcohol

Ladies, boys or ladyboys, it matters not, for today you are simply my audience.

Hold on to your hats. If you do not have a hat, one will be provided for you. If you do not care for hats, you may choose to hold onto your cats. Failing that, feel free to cling to rain-dampened door mats, men who take inspiration from humble bats, dapper dons in shining spats. Maybe genetically enhanced, super intelligent, sociopathic (yet coupled with misfiring synaptic) lab rats because tonight, Pinky, we shall set about doing the same thing we do every night- try to write a remotely cohesive blog entry!

In the last 12 months, I have attempted to assist the world of medical science by pre-emptively pickling my body. End result anticipated? Immortality. Deaths suffered? None. As such, I am classing my journey to the bottom of that barrel as a success thus far.

I awoke in a haze, nothing out of the ordinary for the month that was in it. Attempting to open my eyes, I encountered unexpected resistance. A part of me realised I didn't want to know. Gingerly, I pried open my eyes through sheer will. OK, I recognised the room as my own. Good start (depending on how you look at it). I was still wearing my clothes from the night before. Not so classy, but acceptable. Still too shell-shocked to make any sudden movements, I felt about my person. I was on my bed, atop the covers, and also lying on all the clothes I'd strewn across it the day before. Losing style points by the fuck-load. Change flooded from my pockets. I was swimming in coins. Fuck, I'm a hobo who's come into cash. Something still felt off. I reached for my face. Still there. I groped a little higher....I hadn't recalled my head being this tall before....still working my way up.....GENTLEMAN! I was still wearing my top hat. I am the classiest tramp that has ever lived!

And so began my final day of gainful employment in Scotland. And a fine month it were. Large sections erased by alcohol, I must accept, but the pictures will last a lifetime. Pictures that always spoke the words:

"When the fuck did that happen!?"

Squeezing into the lady underwear, wriggling and gyrating to get accustomed to the snug fit, I wondered was this how the authorities would one day find me? My dad called to identify the body:

"No. My daughter is at home with her family. Son? Er....no....that's not him....never seen that one before in my life."

Still, they looked good over my trousers. I flicked the scarf over the shoulders of the brown corduroy shirt, pulled the tweed fedora tight on my skull and strutted down the hall for the lost property fashion show. The disposable camera clicked with a rampant ferocity, as if begging to be ravished by curious androgyny.

"At least I got into a girl's pants...."

Their leader squawked instructions, bellowed and chased the lesser creatures from the gathering war council with growing menace. He coordinated the attack. Transfixed by their approach, like raptors they caught our attention at the front. We completely missed their flanking manoeuvre. We were encircled. Why had we thrown them the haggis crisps!? Hitchcock had foretold our demise at the beaks of the birds. We giggled in fear, like innocent schoolgirls invited backstage by a sex-crazed Beiber.

"We should go back to work."

And so our lunch break was brought to an end.

Through this whole month long festival I had managed to maintain my physical well-being. Regular readers may be aware of the unlikelihood of such survival. Last time out in Edinburgh, I made it less than one week before my patchy limbo skills ( I say "patchy", when in reality I'm 0 for 3, but I like to talk myself up) garnered me an ice-breaking head wound above the left brow. I was secretly pleased with myself for conducting myself in a far less reckless manner this August. I finished my work in the office. The second I crossed that threshold back into the regular world, I was off the clock. Done.

WHAM! (appropriately onomatopoeic for you, Batman?)

I have gained a perfectly rational fear of fuse boxes hovering at head height. A wonderful, ice-breaking head wound had found its way on to my visage, just above the left brow. Swelling contained by forceful application of ice, lest I receive a matching wound on my right (so went the threat of the management), I pondered the irony of the fact that limbo would have saved me this injury.

So why have I chosen to regale you with a curious tale of non-inebriation, so scarce in its arising this autumn? Precisely for that reason. In the coming days shall emerge further tales of gentlemanly conduct, forbidden nipples in German accents and hat inspired hyperventilation. For now, I went the route of sobriety, just to throw a curve.

After all, this year's streak (taking into account the 3 drink minimum rule) topped out at 45 days of consecutive liver drowning. Hey, I've got two.....right?

Upon deciding to cease, I attempted to give up alcohol by purchasing a self-help book designed to help one kick one's addiction. It suggests that people tend to replace one vice with another as a substitute. I've read that book 17 times now....