Perhaps It Was Space Aliens.
Many years ago.
It is late Sunday morning. I am in bed, asleep. I awake.
‘Ouch.’ I think to myself. ‘That is quite a headache.’
I was In The Pub the previous evening.
Slowly, I sit up. I notice a number of things. First of all, my pillow is still attached to the side of my face. With some discomfort, I peel it off. It is covered in blood. As are my bedsheets.
Hmmm.
I look at my hands. They too are very bloody, and there is very little skin on any of my knuckles.
Peculiar.
I decide some pills may be in order, what with my I-am-Godzilla-you-are-Japan headache and everything. I place my feet on my bedroom floor and stand up. Except I don’t, because for some reason my right leg doesn’t work and immediately buckles under me. I can’t bend it or put any weight on it.
Strange.
I get up off the floor. There is considerable bruising to my left ribs.
Hmm.
I hop to the bathroom, and look in the mirror. Not entirely unexpectedly, my face is covered in blood. I wash it. A large portion of my face does not like the feel of the water. I look in the mirror again.
One quarter of the right of my face is smashed to a pulp. It is not recognisably human. I may or may not have two eyes. It is impossible to say.
This is quite a puzzle.
Being barely twenty years old, I decide the best course of action is to go back to The Pub and have a stiff drink.
Pub Landlord: What the fuck happened to you?
Me: I was rather hoping you could shed some light on the situation.
No. He cannot. I had left early and unscathed the previous evening. Only two or three drinks apparently. I wasn’t noticeably drunk.
Hmm.
Drinking Friend arrives. Looks at me.
DF: What the fuck is this?
Me: [gesturing] This is my face.
I stay a little longer. Complete strangers admire my new face. I feel rather roguish.
Some days later.
I remember the man at the burger van I visited on my way home giving me a very strange look as I purchased my supper. I mustn’t have looked too good at that point. It is a completely isolated memory.
Some weeks later.
I remember passing a particularly unpleasant night-club on my way home.
Bouncer: Alright are you?
Me: [Aggressive] What’s it to you?
Bouncer: Well. It’s just, you’ve got blood pouring out of your head.
Me:[checking] Oh. So I have. Thanks for that.
Again, an entirely isolated memory.
It is now.
My only souvenirs are a small scar above my right eyebrow and a small area of roughly-textured flesh on my right cheekbone. You wouldn’t even notice unless you were specifically looking.
And I’ve still no idea what the hell happened.
It is late Sunday morning. I am in bed, asleep. I awake.
‘Ouch.’ I think to myself. ‘That is quite a headache.’
I was In The Pub the previous evening.
Slowly, I sit up. I notice a number of things. First of all, my pillow is still attached to the side of my face. With some discomfort, I peel it off. It is covered in blood. As are my bedsheets.
Hmmm.
I look at my hands. They too are very bloody, and there is very little skin on any of my knuckles.
Peculiar.
I decide some pills may be in order, what with my I-am-Godzilla-you-are-Japan headache and everything. I place my feet on my bedroom floor and stand up. Except I don’t, because for some reason my right leg doesn’t work and immediately buckles under me. I can’t bend it or put any weight on it.
Strange.
I get up off the floor. There is considerable bruising to my left ribs.
Hmm.
I hop to the bathroom, and look in the mirror. Not entirely unexpectedly, my face is covered in blood. I wash it. A large portion of my face does not like the feel of the water. I look in the mirror again.
One quarter of the right of my face is smashed to a pulp. It is not recognisably human. I may or may not have two eyes. It is impossible to say.
This is quite a puzzle.
Being barely twenty years old, I decide the best course of action is to go back to The Pub and have a stiff drink.
Pub Landlord: What the fuck happened to you?
Me: I was rather hoping you could shed some light on the situation.
No. He cannot. I had left early and unscathed the previous evening. Only two or three drinks apparently. I wasn’t noticeably drunk.
Hmm.
Drinking Friend arrives. Looks at me.
DF: What the fuck is this?
Me: [gesturing] This is my face.
I stay a little longer. Complete strangers admire my new face. I feel rather roguish.
Some days later.
I remember the man at the burger van I visited on my way home giving me a very strange look as I purchased my supper. I mustn’t have looked too good at that point. It is a completely isolated memory.
Some weeks later.
I remember passing a particularly unpleasant night-club on my way home.
Bouncer: Alright are you?
Me: [Aggressive] What’s it to you?
Bouncer: Well. It’s just, you’ve got blood pouring out of your head.
Me:[checking] Oh. So I have. Thanks for that.
Again, an entirely isolated memory.
It is now.
My only souvenirs are a small scar above my right eyebrow and a small area of roughly-textured flesh on my right cheekbone. You wouldn’t even notice unless you were specifically looking.
And I’ve still no idea what the hell happened.
posted by Tired Dad at
7:23 pm
22 Comments:
In my family we call that "a jakey injury". "Jakey" being a Glaswegian term for down and out drunkard.
It's specific meaning is : an injury after a night out you can't explain. But normally we're talking carpet burns, bruises on shins, grazed knuckles; that kind of thing.
Yours was a jakey uber-injury.
Aliens would have targeted your bum-hole.
Take that from me...
I'm sorry to hear of your alien bum-hole invasion. But it wasn't even a jakey. I'd had next to nothing to drink. I was a student at the the time and two-to-three drinks was as nought.
That's freaky scary!
Yeah, it was me, sorry about that. It involved aliens, laser guns and my friend and I who both have a penchant for black suits and sunglasses.
Anyway, you helped save the world but then we had to wipe your memory with some flashing light thing.
It's always the _not_knowing_ I find the worst. The active mind invents explanations far, far worse than anything that could actually have happened.
And at least with aliens, you don't have to face them at work the next morning. And realise they remember everything.
Unless of course you work with aliens.
blimey
I'm just waiting for some random blog-surfer to misjudge the tone of this blog and post something asinine, such as 'that sounds like my normal saturday night! ROFL!!!'.
Christ though, TD. You sound like a dangerous man to know.
maybe it is Just As Well you can't remember.
wow that is weird.
hit n run mabe?
The Mista (thanks for the name even though you meant it not to be) once ended up in the Atocha train station in Madrid -- blood on his sleeve, but not really injured -- after a wedding party. He called swearing that he was in Seville ... he had no idea how he'd gotten there (though he didn't really end up there) ... a total mind loss he swears resulting from someone dropping him something.
Ang: Yes I konw. It was me it happened to.
Pie: Very good. But the difference between you and me is that I make this look GOOD.
oe: Fortunately it wasn't a work thing. Or even a drinking thing.
Peach: And, indeed, crikey.
m_g: If that ever happens I shall promptly email said commentor some internet Aids. I'm not really a dangerous man to know. Unless you get to know me really well.
me: Perhaps. But it is a puzzle.
Sakura: Em. Yes. It is. That was sort of the point.
Pup: Oddly, that did seem to be the popular opinion at the time. And for the best part of six months before evrything healed properly. I preferred to contend that it was the result of a confrontation between myself and six rugby players. And that they came off the worse for the encounter.
I weigh eight stone. Nobody believed me.
Clarissa: Eh? The suggestion was entirely serious. And yeah. It's always a spiked drink isn't it?
I'm glad you started that "Many years ago.".. that would scare the kids.. but you weren't drunk?
what the?
that is truly horrible,
me I would have not stopped asking question's until I got an answer, but then I'm a girl and i need to know WHY.
hope it never ever happens again.
you've got to have an excuse even if it's a hackneyed one!
You have a missed vocation as stand-in for the Bishop of Southwark. He said exactly the same thing. The twelve step programme sometimes helps. Otherwise, it was probably the Johnny-no-mates lifestyle. Friends are demanding and narrow the mind, but they get you safely home and tell you what happened afterwards. It's the price you pay for their company...
Amnesia must of come from drugged drink, or from the head injury indirectly related to spiked drink!?
I woke up with a ferengi once.
But it was the drink.
Definitely the drink.
Honey: It's not happened since so fingers crossed.
C: Agreed. But it is quite the old chestnut.
Anon: Welcome oh insightful one. Goodness. You have seen to the very essense. You're like Yoda or something.
DJ: I'm sure the continued memory loss is due to the huge clonk on the head. But I don't tend to keep the type of company or frequent the sort of establishments where drink spiking occurs. If it does occur. So. Dunno.
Lee: Right then. And I'm afraid the sci-fi references stop here. There's been too many of late. All from me, I admit. But whilst I use them to mock those who are fond of science fiction, it is now obvious that this may not be clear to the casual reader.
Oh you thought I was kidding?
Christ. Fine. That was a worse morning than mine. It's not a competition.
Thank fuck I'm not the only one..
At leasr it doesn't happen to me every week.
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