Somebody to Like

34 - Satan's Little Imps

**Gray**

Death. Death would be a welcome relief. Or maybe I'd already been chewed up by death and spat out into the depths of hell. That had to be it. I was already being tortured by Satan and his tiny demons. My head was in a vice, every muscle in my body ached, my mouth tasted like I'd been chewing on Josh's socks and I was sweating. The infernal heat engulfing my body was a sure indicator that my current location was in Hades.

I rolled over and found myself falling – probably into one of hell's lower levels – before landing on my back with a breath expelling thump. Resuming my foetal position of pain I gingerly opened one eye. It seemed that hell had the same slightly revolting carpet as our tour bus.

"Get up dickhead."

A pair of Doc Martens entered my field of vision. Hmmm, okay then. Not in hell. Or not the official one at least, because waking up with Josh's feet in my face certainly fit my personal definition of it. I groaned a response to him which was intended come out as 'go away' but sounded more like, "Gnnnnaarggggh." Another pair of feet joined the first, these were wearing Vans.

"Come on mate, at least get up off the floor and have a coffee. It'll make you feel better," Van said.

At least he was showing some sympathy for my plight unlike Josh, the pillock. Still, sympathy of no, I had no intention of moving and indicated so with another grunt. Closing my eyes I tried to find my way back to unconsciousness. My progress toward that goal was rudely interrupted by an unexpected soaking from what felt like half the Danube River.

"What the fuck?" I spluttered sitting bolt upright, a move that made my head pound and my stomach churn in protest. Ace stood grinning down at me a pint glass clutched in his greasy mitt. "You are an utter wanker," I said.

"It's alive," he said to Van and Josh. "You ladies were too gentle on him." Josh laughed and even Van cracked a broad smile. Bastards.

"You didn't have to douse me in water," I grumbled.

"Oh but I did mate, you look like something one of Kim's cats puked up on the carpet and you smell even worse," Ace informed me.

"Don't fucking care," I muttered slumping back against the sofa I'd clearly occupied all night.

"Well I fucking care," Josh piped up. "I don't want another lecture from the girls about the cleanliness of the bus."

At his mention of the girls I remembered the reason I'd drunk myself into this hideous state in the first place. "I don't give a shit what the girls think," I snapped and struggled to my feet.

Pushing past Ace I made my way unsteadily down the bus, past a bin liner full of empty cans and bottles, to the bathroom. Flipping the latch behind me I turned and glared at my pasty, red eyed reflection in the mirror. Not only did I feel like shit I looked like it too. And Ace was right, I stank. I shed my clothes and stepped in to the coffin like shower enclosure – appropriate for my mood really – and stood under the trickling stream of water for long enough that my bandmates could have legitimately considered me an arsehole. The bus was only able to carry a limited amount of water so we had to be conscious of how much we used if we showered on board. Right at that moment I couldn't bring myself to care.

Spotty memories of the afternoon and the night before were penetrating my hungover haze. Amelie breaking up with me didn't feel any better hungover than it had when I was sober or even when I was stinking drunk. It was official being dumped by the woman I loved felt gut-wrenchingly awful in any state of being. And her dumping me still made about as much sense as it had done at the time it happened.

None.

I'm not a completely clueless idiot, I got that it had something to do with what that wanker Gavin Cooper-Jones had said about her when he didn't know we were listening but it still made no sense to me. After all she'd copped worse abuse on line and had essentially shrugged it off. Just thinking about it made my brain hurt and that had nothing to do with my hangover.