I watch in dismay as Syd slams his fourth empty pint glass on the pub table and wipes his mouth on his sleeve, before throwing his arms in the air. Bastard has won again. Why it surprises me I don’t know, he wins every bloody week. So far I – the Loser – have had to foot the booze bill for a night, I’ve had to buy pizzas on the way home, and walk to the shops for smokes in the pissing down rain.
Up until tonight, all of our weekly forfeits have been light on awkwardness and heavy on the wallet, mostly because I, the reasonable one, have chosen the tasks. But this week Syd asked if he could choose and, naively, I said yes.
Banging his hand on the table and laughing at me as I sink the last dregs of my pint, Syd starts to chant.
“King for a day, king for a day! Sun up to sun down, I’ll be king for a day!”
Fuck. May God strike me down on the way home to save me from tomorrow. Continue reading “K is for… King for a Day”