Featuring today’s guest star: Grant Hancock
“Sean…Sean…”
The room was dark, very dark. I couldn’t see anything in fact. Had I gone blind? Had the previous New Year’s Eve’s night of debauchery ended terribly? Was I dead? I lay pondering these questions and thinking of the beginnings of a new, more efficient theory of relativity as a voice called out my name from somewhere else in the room. As a man of such incredible sexual prowess I can actually impregnate people’s pets by stroking them (an ability that caused my upcoming television advert for the RSPCA to be banned) I was more than used to hearing a voice calling my name in the morning, but this was different, this was a male voice. Something was definitely wrong.
I realized this fact was definitely true was I attempted to move and found that it felt as though an angry barbarian had taken a sledgehammer to my skull. My limbs were paralysed. Perhaps this was where it would end for me, perhaps some evil mastermind had taken offence to my sheer, effortless perfection in all area’s and captured me in my drunken partying, sedated me, blindfolded me and tied me down to this bed. This would not stand. Sean Rodrieguez wasn’t going out like this.
“Sean can you hear me Sean?” the voice called out again, this time cackling malevolently afterward.
I’d be damned if I was going to be laughed at. I summoned all of my strength and willed my limbs to move. Miraculously I sat up and realizing my strength had returned dived, screaming like a banshee toward the voice. I landed a sublime right handed punch on whoever or whatever it was and the voice screamed in pain, crashing backward into a TV set in the corner of the room with a sickening crunch of glass, plastic and bones.
My vision refocused, I realized a few alarming facts.
First of all, I wasn’t in some kind of evil madman’s secret dungeon awaiting to be tortured slowly to death, I was in some kind of living room. Across the room a younger couple lay in a fold out bed looking at me in open mouthed awe or perhaps shock. This was a reaction I was fairly used to by now but this time something seemed different.
“Why are they staring?” I wondered as the body of what I thought was my captor groaned in the wreckage of what used to be his home entertainment set up.
It was then I realized I was stark naked and looking down I still had a condom sheathed around my gigantic love stump. Reaching to my knee I pulled off the condom and in a moment not so rare to me I looked around to see where I’d been lay moments before, surely my bed partner would still be there, waiting for a bout of passionate morning after sex?
It appeared I had been lay on a sofa and from under the duvet bounded a small, white dog who barked happily, winked at me and ran off to god knows where.
I felt perhaps this time I had gone too far. Perhaps it was time for me to quit drinking. Not one for apologies I quickly winked at the girl in the fold out bed, causing her to orgasm so hard the plate glass patio windows next to her smashed and put my suit back on. Her boyfriend (I assume) ran at me in anger for (I assume) pleasing his girlfriend more than (I know) he ever could. As he was about to strike me I put on my Ray Ban’s and knocked them down my nose. The boy froze.
“Thanks for keeping her warm for me” I said, clicking my fingers into a gun and pointing my index finger at him.
With that I walked over to the television set to see just who I’d brutally incapacitated. I was mildly surprised to see it was my ever trusty sidekick Grant Hancock. He lay groaning in the shards of glass and plastic. I smiled, relieved I’d hit a person I knew.
“Rough night eh Granty Boy?” I questioned
“Urrrrrrrgh” Grant replied.
I felt kind of bad about the whole affair so I counted out £2,000 worth of £20 notes onto his prone body to pay for the television.
“Keep the change” I insisted. With that I walked out of the house, stopping en route to give the dog I’d apparently slept with my business card. From there I got into my Rolls Royce Phantom and drove top speed back to my palatial estate in Barlaston stopping only when a female police officer stopped me for drink driving which I got out of by bending her over the front of her police cruiser and making sweet passionate love to her whilst passing by cars honked their horns in approval.
As I arrived home to my estate and handed my keys over to Jive’s the Butler I considered what I’d thought earlier. Had I gone too far? Was it time to quit the booze for good and all? Like all my decisions I decided to relax before making it.
I walked into my spa complex and paused for a moment to soak in the opulence of the place. White marble covered every surface, my iTunes selection played quietly in the background on hidden speakers. I pulled out my platinum pill dispenser from my suit jacket and popped two paracetamol. Then, in my Armani suit, climbed into my 16 man Jacuzzi to think about my rehab and recover from my hangover. Floating there in the foamy delight of the water, my long blonde hair splayed around my superbly featured head I mused about life, philosophy, women and just which publisher I’d let publish my next bestseller.
Somewhere on the other side of the room I could hear my man made 30 foot water fall splashing playfully into it’s plunge pool or it could have been my fountain in a likeness of me pissing onto a globe whilst smoking a cigar and giving all onlookers a thumbs up. I gave up deciding which it was and climbed out of the Jacuzzi, feeling fresh and invigorated. I stripped out of my suit and handed the ruined thing to Amelie my French maid who knew only how to say the English phrases “Would you like a beer?” and “You look great naked, sir.”
“You look great naked, sir” She said in her cute accent.
“Why thanks doll.” I replied
“Would you like a beer?” She asked
WOULD I like a beer? I remembered that before my relaxation time I was supposed to have made a decision about something roughly like that. Quit alcohol? Sure why not? What’s the worst that could happen?
“No thanks baby” I said, considering having sex with her later, “I’ve quit.”
There will now be daily updates with Sean Rodrieguez' Rehab Diary. Be sure to check in each day to see just how the man Time Magazine deemed unfair to name "Man of the Year" is getting on with his rehab. Updates should go up at 7pm GMT, but it really depends on whether he's getting any at that precise moment or not. Which as we all know is fairly likely.
