Had to bop to Sunderland again today. Starting to know that place with the back of the hand and with that knowledge comes loathing. Loathing, not particularly for the place – it seems like many of the other slightly undernourished areas I have to visit – but because I’m forced to head off there at the crack of dawn, deliver some sort of fearful presentation, coffee stimulants propping open drooping eyelids and arms gesticulating as I try to find sentences which make sense and get through the thing without blowing my cover.
This morning particularly, at 6am with the sound of torrential rain outside and the knowledge that the light grey flannel of my suit would soon be flekked with dark grey from the spread of the rain which my umbrella couldn’t catch, I was reminded of a Hunter S Thompson article from the Great Shark Hunt where he recounts a time in his younger life where while working on a construction gang he turned up on a day when the skies opened and the world of work seemed particularly abhorrent. I can’t remember the exact wording, but I seem to remember him describing how one of the old hands in the group made the following observation:
“Fellows, what in gods name are we doing out here? On days like this there’s only one place to be – lying in bed with the rain beating down on the top of the corrugated iron roof, a bottle of wild turkey within easy reach, belly to belly with a good womanâ€.
…. And that’s exactly how I felt this morning.