Let’s start with this: the title of the piece is a misnomer. A more apt wording would be "My well-known crutch". And that crutch is coffee. Lots and lots of coffee.
Picture in your mind as much coffee as you can think of. Have you done that? Great. Now fucking double it. Seriously.
Online bookie sites should have a tab for me in their "specials" section so that people can bet on whether my heart will explode before I hit 50. Only if you place a bet on my heart exploding, you’ll lose on a technicality. Because it won’t just explode. It will erupt with such force that it shatters my rib cage, pulping the bone and leaving a colourful chestlength imperfection on my skin for the mortuary cosmetologist to contend with.
I start my day with two cups of instant. People wonder why I drink instant coffee when the flavour makes you wish you’d lost your capacity for taste in a violent head-on collision. I like a posh coffee but I’m not precious. I drink it at such a high volume that I have to settle for mediocrity from time to time.
I’m too tired in the morning to run a sponge over my nut-sack, let alone operate a cafetière or an espresso machine. But can I dip a teaspoon into a jar of freeze-dried granules, scoop it into a mug and pour hot water over it? Can I fuck.
Next up is a store-bought number before I get to the office. I’ll splash out on that one. Then a four-cup-cafetière’s worth throughout the morning. A double espresso to take the post-lunch edge off. Another cafetière mid-afternoon. Then one just before dinner to keep me going through the evening. And that’s if I’m not working.
You build a late shift into the equation and the numbers go up. And all this to avoid me being complete garbage at my job.
So now you know. If you want to fuck my shit up, take away my coffee. But, in case you’re buying, mine’s black. I don’t dick around with milk. Milk is for children and cats.