Wednesday, March 22, 2006


The runaway train called alcohol abuse

Sunday night was a good one: thanks to my football-free schedule I managed to get in two sayonara parties, plus further drinks with Jamie, my erstwhile jazz flatmate.

Party one: told one girl that her flatmate had said she'd been going round town with a mattress strapped to her back, hoping to sow a little discord in the apartment. Naturally, she'd said no such thing.

Second sayonara was for a lad from my football team who got married recently and is moving to Shiga. Apparently, the wedding process was performed with some haste after the couple discovered there was a bundle of joy on the way.

I saw it somewhat differently and told a bunch of people there was no way the bride was pregnant "she's playing him like a flute."

All this accomplished and still not last train; I headed for Balamooshka's where I beat Jamie at pool, single-handedly as it were.

Then I had to be up in the morning, righteously hungover, to chat with the doctor about my hand. I told him that playing pool was a bit painful. He sniggered and told me I should be able to lose the cast in two weeks time.

Good work my son. You make me proud.

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