"Hmmm" he pondered thoughtfully, as he turned over in the bed to admire the masculine visage of his boyfriend. "How is it that I feel ok this morning, but The Boyf looks like shit?"
The Boyf normally manages to have this veneer of a healthy looking glow, even if he's been out for an entire weekend. I, on the other hand, sometimes look like crap after an early night and lots of deep sleep. Today the tables were turned. Well, not quite. I don't really have a healthy looking glow, but I look a darn sight better than The Boyf, who, I might add, threw up in some toilets last night, and then again in the road outside. Alot. He thinks he might have a tummy bug. I think it might be something to do with the 6 pints of Grolsch, 2 Malibu and cokes (!), and the joint he smoked. On a school night (for him, literally), I ask you!
He'd managed to smoke the joint in a bar thanks to the pervading stench of cigar, which frankly obliterated every other smell in the building, possibly in Greater London, although reports of aircraft getting lost in a odd fog over SE1 last night are still to be confirmed. The offending smoker was puffing away on the largest cigar I've ever seen, a good 12 inches long I reckon. I normally measure lengths by popping stuff in my mouth, which can be fun when trying to see if a sofa will fit in the lounge, but in this instance I decided to just hazard a guess. The upshot of his cigar smoking antics was a huge pile of ash, which he'd decided would look better on the floor rather than in the conveniently provided ashtrays. I hadn't spotted this ash pile until a friend of ours pointed it out, to which I exclaimed "Oh my God! It looks like my Dad!". Needless to say, The Boyf spat out a mouthful of lager, which was obviously a portent as to what would be happening with the rest of his intake later in the evening.
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