95: One winter’s day, ‘pon returning from Asda on a wholly unlit road I was struck by a bicycle (that had a man on it, controlling its direction). The fellow was perfectly gentlemanly about it, and even led me to a shortcut that reduced my journey time by a great deal (as I was lost). At the time of the incident I was listening to “Chapel Of Ghouls” by Morbid Angel on my recently-acquired iPod (which went undamaged). Curiously, my brother was in Amsterdam the same week and he too was struck by a bipedalling menace. While I spent the rest of the week in bed nursing aches and pains by watching every episode of Futurama, he suffered no such woe and even spotted a passing-by Jared Leto. Wait for it. ON A BIKE!
96: I developed a deep-rooted fear of mosh pits after suffering a nasty fall in The Fort one messy metal night. While the damage was done to the rear of my head, evidence was to appear from my nose. Any injury that occurs at the back but manifests at the front of something is worthy of abstinence from the deed that facilitated it, don’t ya fink?
97: Had my left index finger broken in the summer of 2004 (remembered by myself as ‘the summer of Spider-Man 2’). During the tenure of injury, I bathed it until it throbbed, made a point of pointing at lots of things to the left of things and was STILL the best drummer in a room full of people with ten un-braced fingers. Yuh huh. I’ll take that credit yo.
98: One time in McDonald’s (where I worked for a fortnight, if even) I multiplied a customer’s order of one McFlurry by a hundred and proceeded to attempt to charge him the full amount, my common sense still in my locker with my pair of trousers with REAL FUCKING POCKETS IN THEM. As an aside, that same man later developed a grudge towards me on the false grounds that I had bullied his daughter, though I did once engage in a full-scale row with his two OTHER daughters in the girls’ toilets of that centre of karmic inbalance, The Fort.
99: I was once reported to my manager in Xtra-Vision by a customer I had referred to as ‘boss’, in as casual and cheekless a manner as possible. I was then told, for the first time in my life, that I was not allowed to call customers ‘boss’.
100: In my fortnight of employment by Poundstretcher I was subjected to the surreality of standing with one leg hanging out of a green dumpster as it rolled down a hill towards an unmissable wall as my pitiably hung over divorcee manager hobbled feebly after me. I felt bad for ruining her smoke break so.