So then I got totally wasted and woke up in Antigua
Monday, August 7th, 2006Not quite. But still, what have I been up to recently?
I was supposed to visit the in-laws a few weekends back but backed out to go and see Guns N Roses. In a nutshell: great show, but he turned up late again and I didn’t get home until 4. The ginger prick. Shared the nightbus with two journalists from NME, one of whom had so much cleavage on display it was painfully obvious they knew where the afterparty was and were going to use her feminine charms to get in. I think I was right - they got out at Regent St, which is where the afterparty turned out to be. When passing through Canary Wharf I happened to see a pair of bums sitting on the pavement. Turns out the truth was far worse, it was Liam and Marek!
Work has been plodding along - I’m a little anxious to fuck off for my holiday now, to be honest. I have nearly finished all the websites I’ve been working on, so a long holiday is due.
I took the day off on Friday to attend the funeral of one of my best friend’s father back home in Wales.
As I’m sure you’ll agree, the best way to deal with grief, or anything else for that matter, is to drink yourself stupid. And that’s exactly what happened. It seems to be a little-known fact that the Welsh are just as keen on wakes as the Irish are. I’m digressing…
I went out with my friend and a bunch of people I hadn’t seen in about 4 or 5 years, but it was if I hadn’t left. One chap in particular - a training MMA fighter, no less - took it upon himself to get everyone else drunk at his own expense, then jab cocktail umbrellas into his scalp, and then yell a Quagmire-esque “Giggidy-giggidy” at passing barmaids. At one point I had 3 Guinnesses, 2 double-vodka Red Bulls and a tequila in front of me. In retrospect I’m quite grateful I didn’t shit or piss myself.
18 hours later, I’m sitting on a park bench outside the pub where we’d managed a lock-in, but pretty sober. Or so I thought. Turns out I was still drunk. I didn’t get my hangover until Sunday. Though it wasn’t as bad as I’d feared, seeing as I’d had a fat Sunday lunch to soak it all up courtesty of my Mum.
One final note - the Missus has the first of three exams this morning. (The other two being tomorrow and Wednesday.) So, if our flat was a station right now it would probably be called Tension Central. Or maybe West Stressbury. I’m hoping she flies through the exams this year and the next two, and becomes a doctor. Then the station would be called Bank.
Over and out.