"I'm really glad to see you here"
I can't believe I went out again on Saturday. What is happening to me? That's two weekends in a row!
Anyway I realized on Saturday night that you can tell how drunk a person is by the strength and duration of the hug especially when you are dealing with people you don't really know. Basically you can draw up a mathematical equation using the factors above and you'd be dead right.
Proof of this occurs about five minutes after I walk- or should I say stagger- in. There we are suddenly hanging on to each other and hugging as if our very lives depended on it and yet we had barely exchanged two words to each other before that night. I'd be dammed if I know anything other than her name and a few modules we happen to be sharing but we chattered on incoherently for a short while. Such are the dangers/wonders of alcohol. I'm not entirely sure we can look each other in the eye after that. And right before my brother and I leave- I can't remember much of what happened the rest of the night except a lot of dancing and snatched conversations that made no sense- we order chips and there's no ketchup or mayo or any sauce whatsoever. This sounds like a very minor thing, but when you are drunk and hungry and THERE IS NO KETCHUP you could very easily write your uni dissertation on the importance of ketchup at 1.30am to the wider community of drinkers. I was looking longingly at the discarded ketchup satchets on the next table. I also recall that I tucked away all those chips without the benefit of a fork and even without ketchup, it went down so well that I nearly started a musical on the spot.
And what a hangover the next day. Matters are not helped by watching Chelsea beat Liverpool 2-0. Why play Peter Crouch as a sole striker? That doesn't make any sense whatsoever. Chelsea are just too good, dammn them.
But anyway the hangover- I was feeling so bad the next day that I eventually threw up at half-time. I did this in the toilet I normally don't use and the reason I don't use it is because it reminds me very distinctly of a torture chamber. You can barely see the roof since its bloody high but the room itself is barely wide enough to stand in and believe me this combination makes it possibly the creepiest toilet outside of Transylvania. This is where I found myself vomiting uncontrollably on Sunday afternoon although I was not stupid enough to make rash promises like deciding to quit drinking. The toilet doesn't even have a proper flush handle, but you have to pull this chain on the side that looks like something from the seventeenth century. Do peeople actually use this place? And then I get back and Chelsea score another goal and its curtains for us. Reina gets sent off after Robben goes down from a slight push in the face.
But I'm not going to talk about that because one must not wallow in defeat. Infact, one must not wallow at all as that should generally be left to pigs who coincidentally have nothing better to do except to wallow. There is however really bad news though, slightly worse than Liverpool losing to Chelsea- The final episode of The thick of it It is not often in my life that I have felt compelled to do the whole sackcloth-and-ashes thing from the bible to show my misery, but removing this show from my life is very unfair. Without the comic genius of The thick of it every Monday, how am I to go on? And why should we pay our license fee if the best things on the BBC are gone in a matter of weeks? hang on, I dont actually pay a license fee. Strictly speaking I am an outlaw.
This has been the best thing on TV by a country mile and now it's gone. Will life ever be the same again?
Anyway I realized on Saturday night that you can tell how drunk a person is by the strength and duration of the hug especially when you are dealing with people you don't really know. Basically you can draw up a mathematical equation using the factors above and you'd be dead right.
Proof of this occurs about five minutes after I walk- or should I say stagger- in. There we are suddenly hanging on to each other and hugging as if our very lives depended on it and yet we had barely exchanged two words to each other before that night. I'd be dammed if I know anything other than her name and a few modules we happen to be sharing but we chattered on incoherently for a short while. Such are the dangers/wonders of alcohol. I'm not entirely sure we can look each other in the eye after that. And right before my brother and I leave- I can't remember much of what happened the rest of the night except a lot of dancing and snatched conversations that made no sense- we order chips and there's no ketchup or mayo or any sauce whatsoever. This sounds like a very minor thing, but when you are drunk and hungry and THERE IS NO KETCHUP you could very easily write your uni dissertation on the importance of ketchup at 1.30am to the wider community of drinkers. I was looking longingly at the discarded ketchup satchets on the next table. I also recall that I tucked away all those chips without the benefit of a fork and even without ketchup, it went down so well that I nearly started a musical on the spot.
And what a hangover the next day. Matters are not helped by watching Chelsea beat Liverpool 2-0. Why play Peter Crouch as a sole striker? That doesn't make any sense whatsoever. Chelsea are just too good, dammn them.
But anyway the hangover- I was feeling so bad the next day that I eventually threw up at half-time. I did this in the toilet I normally don't use and the reason I don't use it is because it reminds me very distinctly of a torture chamber. You can barely see the roof since its bloody high but the room itself is barely wide enough to stand in and believe me this combination makes it possibly the creepiest toilet outside of Transylvania. This is where I found myself vomiting uncontrollably on Sunday afternoon although I was not stupid enough to make rash promises like deciding to quit drinking. The toilet doesn't even have a proper flush handle, but you have to pull this chain on the side that looks like something from the seventeenth century. Do peeople actually use this place? And then I get back and Chelsea score another goal and its curtains for us. Reina gets sent off after Robben goes down from a slight push in the face.
But I'm not going to talk about that because one must not wallow in defeat. Infact, one must not wallow at all as that should generally be left to pigs who coincidentally have nothing better to do except to wallow. There is however really bad news though, slightly worse than Liverpool losing to Chelsea- The final episode of The thick of it It is not often in my life that I have felt compelled to do the whole sackcloth-and-ashes thing from the bible to show my misery, but removing this show from my life is very unfair. Without the comic genius of The thick of it every Monday, how am I to go on? And why should we pay our license fee if the best things on the BBC are gone in a matter of weeks? hang on, I dont actually pay a license fee. Strictly speaking I am an outlaw.
This has been the best thing on TV by a country mile and now it's gone. Will life ever be the same again?
posted by Minzo at 8:27 PM
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