Friday’s Short-Lived Victory
Friday again. Always Friday. Wages drop in, feels like a little win even though it’s already half-spent before it lands. Bills get shuffled about, some paid, some “deal with it next week.” Fridge stocked just enough to pretend you’ve got your life in order. Maybe a frozen pizza, some milk, couple cans. And then you know what comes next — pint waiting, maybe a round, then another, and before you know it you’re half skint again.
Cheap Thrills, Empty Pockets
And it’s not just beer. Maybe you grab a cheap shirt — you don’t need it, but it feels good when the tag’s still on. Or another Amazon box. Stupid gadget you’ll use once, shove in a drawer with the rest of the forgotten crap. That’s England for you. Paid on Friday, broke by Monday. Doesn’t even feel wrong, does it? Everyone else is the same.
Denial in a Pint Glass
We brag about it, even. That old line: “We ain’t here forever, mate.” Pint in hand, laughing like that’s wisdom carved on stone tablets. But it’s not wisdom. It’s denial dressed up as banter. And you know it.
Thing is, tomorrow does come. Not tomorrow-tomorrow. Not Saturday hangover tomorrow. The other tomorrow. The twenty-years-later one. After a few prime ministers, couple of royals shuffled off, scandals you half remember. And suddenly, the bill lands. The tab you thought you dodged. And the overdraft isn’t just the one with Barclays. It’s your life.
Buzz Now or Cushion Later
So — cheap pleasure or money? Pint or portfolio? Buzz now or cushion later?
We both know the answer people pick. Pint every time. Takeaway every time. Parcel every time. Dopamine, fast and dirty. You buy it, you get the little high, then it vanishes. And the pay packet vanishes with it.
Money’s the opposite. Silent. Doesn’t flash neon. Doesn’t buzz your phone at 2am. Doesn’t pat you on the back like your mate when you buy a round. It just sits there, quiet. Looks dead. But while you’re scrolling, drinking, wasting, it compounds. Builds slow, invisible. And that’s exactly why you ignore it — it doesn’t seduce you.
Hooked on Spending
And the world? It’s built to keep you away from it. Bars engineered with music, lights, smells to make you drink more. Amazon pings you with “deal ends at midnight.” Your mates laugh if you skip the pub. Whole culture conspires to keep you spending. Because saying no feels like betrayal. Try refusing a round and watch the stares. Better to waste a fiver than be the tight one.
So you repeat. Week after week. Death by a thousand pints. Tell yourself lies: just this Friday, I’ll start saving next week, next month, next year. And the years slide by.
The Price of Pleasure
Here’s the trick nobody tells you — cheap pleasures cost twice. Once when you hand over the cash. Again when regret turns up with interest.
Take the pint. Gone in twenty minutes. The kebab, cold wrapper on the floor next morning. Amazon box excitement? Lasts ten minutes. Two months later you can’t even remember what’s in the drawer. But the money’s gone. The chance to grow it — gone.
Meanwhile, the boring one, the money, is there in the background. A bit each week, doesn’t feel like anything. Feels like punishment. But it compounds. Quiet, patient. Ten years, twenty years, suddenly it’s a cushion. Freedom. Not sexy. But power.
Meet the Future You Bought
So what’s it going to be? Buzz or future? Do you want to be the bloke at fifty who still jokes about messy Fridays while secretly panicking? Or the bloke who said no now and then, saved, built, and now doesn’t have to beg his boss for overtime?
We don’t like that choice. One feels alive, the other feels dead. Pint feels like life. Portfolio feels like waiting. But waiting’s what wins.
And the ugly truth: every pint, every kebab, every gadget is stolen. Not from the pub, not from the shop. Stolen from future you. Out of his hands before he ever got a chance to hold it. You mug yourself. And one day, older you turns up and asks where it all went. And all you’ve got is a beer belly and a pile of receipts.
The Reckoning
Future you always comes. That’s the joke. He shows up after twenty years. Looks at you. Asks the question. And what will you say? “We ain’t here forever, mate”? Not funny then. Because sometimes you are still here. Still standing, still broke. Still here, mate.
Two Roads, One Choice
So there it is. Two roads. One — piss and waste yourself down to misery, week after week, until there’s nothing left but stories nobody cares about. Or the other road — keep humble, think past Friday, build something boring, solid. Maybe even cash it in for that classic British retirement dream — a house in Pattaya, sun on your back, beer cheaper than water, partner half your age (hole or pole, your preference). Either way, that’s the choice. Cheap now, or better later. Pick wisely.
If money could buy self-control, Amsterdam would be broke. It’s the global capital of instant pleasure — from red lights to regret. Same transaction, just more neon. Amsterdam: Sex, Socks, and Failure
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