Scorcher

The excessive sunshine, the extended absence of work, the ready supply of premium lager and the over-abundance of fancy dressed hen parties. Most folk see the bank holiday as an opportunity to get up to all the little occasional tasks they don't seem to find the time for on a normal weekend. Whether it's off to the DIY superstore, the in-laws or the weekend break by the seaside.
For those who don't have things saved up for the bank holiday, the three day weekend looms as a massive drinking spree. When you usually drink, as the lower end of our clients do, 5 nights a week only getting out of your mind drunk on the Saturday, you savor the bank holiday. When sunny, as the thing was this end, it's a full three days off work, with beer gardens, top end sport and the ever rotating groups of hen nights in fishnets and bunny ears, devil horns, nurse's uniforms or police women's outfits.
Then as the sun sets its off to throw up near me. Blowing colourful chunks in the queue, in the reception, in the bar, on the dancefloor or even for variety, throwing up in the toilet. By the end of the monday night, yes it still kicks off on monday too, the whole place stinks worse than ever and all I want to do is get to bed for a long un-interrupted sleep.
What I don't want in the slightest is to be clearing out on the monday night, really far too early on a tuesday morning, to see two scrotes, having survived the night sipping warm weak lager slowly, swinging for each other. I didn't attempt to talk this one down, I didn't attempt to separate and cool them off. I just scooped them up together, shouted very loudly to make some space and landed them clear of the front door to sort it out. Not my usual diplomatic self but hot, sleep deprived, physically expended and fed up with the stench of vomit you don't get the best of me but at least it was quick and relatively mess free.