Melting

Oh Jesus, it’s hot. It’s bloody fucking hot. DIE, you motherfucking assholes who complain on Facebook of 23-degree “heat waves” in Europe. Die, and have your corpse sent to me so I can fuck it sideways. I know it gets hot in summer, and in North Indian latitudes June (not August) is the peak summer month, but manohman, boyoboy, this is getting to be a little ‘over‘, as we say in Tamilnad.

Thank GAWD ALMIGHTY for the airconditioner in the car. Even that piece of shit tends to cut out every now and then, and it can’t handle the direct June sun, but it’s certainly better than nothing.

So– where have I been these few days? Who fucking cares? I’ve been up to my usual shit. Drinking copious amounts of whisky daily. Jacking off to mental images of celebrities, without the need for streaming porn. (But still, someone hurry up and leak the Leighton Meester sex tape already.) I haven’t been hitting on anyone. I’ve been repelling the one person hitting on me. Sex is so not on my mind in this weather. Okay, that’s a lie. The weather has diddly-squat to do with it. But still, it’s bloody fucking hot. Have I said that already?

Inbetween all this solo debauchery, I made a major decision as to what to do next; where to go from here. On the other hand, I thought I had made this decision 3 weeks ago, and I reneged at the first opportunity, bloody mercenary that I am, so I don’t want to talk about it just yet.

Impulse decision to drive to Allahabad this weekend. (Friday included.) Why would anyone drive to a shithole called Allahabad? Because there are women there who beg for my company, of course. And also because I’m getting mighty bored of driving from North to South Delhi and back again. There’s only so much on-road swearing at these fucking Delhiites you can do before you realise they have the brains of a zombie in an exam on neuroskeletal muscular control.

I’m severely underprepared for my planned trip. I don’t know how many kilometres away Allahabad is. I do know it ought to take me not more than 10 hours– which is quite a lot to drive by yourself in one day. I know that the route is Delhi-Agra (home of man’s greatest erection for a woman, as the tee-shirt goes)-Mathura-Kanpur-A’bad. 4-lane “National Highway” (HA!) all the way. I haven’t filled the tank with gasolina, but I’ve checked the tyre pressures. I’ve bought provisions for the journey: 30 bucks’ worth of chicken salami and a half-loaf of bread, plus a half-litre of Pepsi, plus a pint of beer to have with lunch. (I know what you’re thinking, but fuck you, I’m a cool guy, and ergo I have a Cool Bag, replete with insulation and ice packs to keep all this shit safe from THE HEAT.) Plus a bottle of Smirnoff for the girls in Allahabad. Oh fuck, I was supposed to buy them a packet of Marlboro reds as well. These things slip your mind when you NO LONGER SMOKE. (Plus, five hundred rupees for the Smirnoff and 90 bucks for the smokes? Do you know how much cheap whisky I could get for that much dough? Fecking hell. The things I do for platonic relationships with womenfolk.)

So, y’know, it’s already Friday morning, I’m supposed to start driving in 5 hours and 25 minutes, and instead of packing or sleeping, I’m writing this shit with my eyes half-closed. What a bloody tiring day I’ve had. I slept most of the day, except for when I was watching The Bank Job over lunch. (God, I want to fuck a Brit.) Then there was a 3-hour round-trip drive to the airport to see me mam, passing through Dilli on her way back to the glorious South. Good god. Insanely tiring, this sleeping all day. I tell thee.

The camera battery is charging as we speak, so let’s hope I get some remotely interesting pictures of the hinterland; the HIV-infested truckers; the rural populace; the “real India”. My hairy left tentacle.