Drinks, Doners and Denial

On Friday I was made redundant and, to celebrate (or should it be commiserate?), we all went to the pub to have leaving drinks.

It was messy.

I must have had about 20-25 drinks before we decided to call it a night and leave London to get the train back to Crawley.

When we finally arrived it was midnight and a very inebriated wife and I thought it would be a great idea to have doner kebab meat and chips (with chilli sauce).

I think the word ‘great’ was a bit of a stretch.

After we’d eaten like pigs at a trough we each took an Alka-Seltzer XS (with caffeine) before we went to bed. This was an attempt to avoid the inevitable hangover that was lurking a few hours away.

In the morning I didn’t have a headache or anything, although my stomach felt all weird and trembly.

It must have been the caffeine.

Yes…definitely the caffeine.

image

Advertisements

I love driving in my ca…AAAAaaaaargh!!!!

Yesterday afternoon I had the pleasure of driving home from Kent with a hangover, which was nice.

When your eyes feel like they’re being dry humped by deranged badgers, the last thing you want is a bright light shining in them relentlessly.  Does the sun come under the category of ‘bright light’?  Hmm, yes I think it does.

It had been raining earlier in the day and the lovely English weather had meant there wasn’t enough heat to evaporate the wet sheen that was glazing the M20 motorway.  In fact there was less heat than a nice beefy fart from a tired gnat in a snowstorm.

This reflective coating of rainwater coupled with the ‘bright light’ low in the sky had created a mirror effect that had essentially lit up the entire motorway with the full intensity of the sun.  This was causing the badgers to freak out and thrust wildly and erratically.  I basically couldn’t see the road, the cars or even my dashboard.  I didn’t know where I was going or how fast!

I soon discovered I was able to remedy the intensive glare by closing my eyes, which made driving at 70mph (ahem) a little more ‘challenging’ and ‘exciting’.  I say the following not to racially offend or to upset the saladly challenged, but I had to squint my eyes until I resembled a really fat Chinese kid.

Eventually the sun moved a little lower in the sky and the angle of reflection shifted.  Fortunately we could all see the road and cars again.  Unfortunately it was now shining a direct beam into our faces, which was nice.

The badgers were nearing climax.

I smugly reached up and lowered my sun visor only to find it wasn’t quite low enough.  

That’s annoying. 

I then had to sit bolt upright in order to block the piercing rays burning into my skull.  This worked to block the sun and allowed me to see about 3 metres of the road in front of me which, at 70mph (ahem), wasn’t worrying at all.

Soon enough the motorway would have a slight bend and the sun would reposition itself, attempting to attack from another angle.  I lowered the passenger sun visor but it wasn’t enough.  I was now sat bolt upright and leaning to the left.  I looked like I was checking my lipstick in the mirror.

Again, another bend and the sun went in for attack vector delta and the badgers were fast approaching their vinegar strokes.

This time I grinned because I knew I was going to be defended by my faithful rear view mirror.  With a lowered sun visor either side of it, it was unlikely the sun would penetrate that tiny gap between the mirror and the visors in order to hit me right in the eye…..oh wait, no, I was wrong.  It found the 2 inch chink in my armour and was exploiting it to sear my retinas and send the badgers into full lock on.

What were the chances?  No matter which direction the motorway turned, the sun would avoid every single piece of shielding my car could provide.

Somewhere in my head I could sense the faint smell of a post coital cigarette and the flush of a toilet.

fatchkid

Breakfast At Tiffanys

The new year has come and gone, and for most of us all we have to show for it is a perpetual hangover and a distinct sense of fatigue that simply wont bugger off.  

Not me.  

Having shared in excess of 12 bottles of proseccco between four of us I should’ve been, by rights, a fucking mess. Instead I woke up as bright as a button and felt great; much to the chagrin of one half of the couple we’d celebrated with.

He was simply struggling to function properly.

In fact he spent a majority of the morning concentrating on difficult tasks like walking, talking and breathing (very gently).  

It was on his recommendation that we find somewhere that does breakfasts, or a “dirty fry up”as he called it. Works for me; I was frigging starving!  

We were in the middle of Brighton so we knew there would be plenty of places to eat. Although having said that, it was mostly bloody fish and chip shops. Our slowly dying friend pointed out there was a great cafe that he’d eaten at before called Tiffany’s. This was met with a snort of laughter from me as it was either a bad pun or a happy accident.  

Please be the latter.
Please be the latter.  

It was the former.  

Bum.  

Oh well, not to worry. We entered and ‘bagsied’ a table like a stereotypical German with a towel before approaching the checkout to place our orders.  

“There’s a 25 minute wait for food” we were told.   We didnt care, just take our order, bring us buckets of orange juice and tea and we’ll be happy.  

It took 35 minutes for our drinks to arrive which meant that we were so dehydrated we resembled a table of tortoise scrotums. It then took a further 20 minutes for our food to get to us. By this time we’d started gnawing the table and licking other customers as they came in.  

The food was good though; truth be told. I had sausage, egg, bacon, beans and chips. I did wonder if it still counts as breakfast if it had chips with it, but figured it must do as it was on the breakfast half of the massive chalkboard menu behind the counter.  

Whilst we waited forever for our sustenance my brother called me to wish me happy new year.  

“What are you up to?” he asked.

“Having breakfast in a greasy cafe in Brighton” I replied.  

“Good man! What are you having?”  

I told him.

He then said the exact same thing about the chips.  

Seriously, why do chips turn a breakfast into lunch?  

Anyway, we finally left about 2 hours after we’d arrived.

When it said ‘All Day Breakfast’ we didn’t realise that meant the time taken to serve it.

Stag do doo…

Hangovers.  They’re fun aren’t they?

Having just returned from a stag night out in sunny (ahem) Newcastle, I’ve found it amusing just how a collection of hungover guys recall the events of the night before.  Well, I say recall, but actually most of us needed it described back to us accompanied by wincing faces, looks of disbelief and the occasional ‘no, really?  Awesome’.

In much the same way we call a collection of lions a pride, I shall now refer to a collection of painfully hungover guys as a ‘shame’.

My most amusing observations of the morning (which wasn’t easy through eyes that felt like they’d been dipped in gibbon piss), was when the stag suggested that one of the shame had probably been bumming a chimp at some point.  I have to say I laughed so hard I nearly followed through…

…which is my main topic about the morning after the night before.  The PAP.  Or as some call it, the Post Alcohol Poo.

Us guys, and indeed any shame when sharing a hotel room, like to offer a thin threat of suffocation and toxic choking by announcing that at some point we’re going to need to drop a shit that resembles King Kong’s thumb.  This is usually met with nods of acceptance, followed by the occasional “me too”, or “let me brush my teeth first”.  I can only assume the last one is due to fear of the brush actually melting in the Chernobyl-ish meltdown that it’ll be subjected to.  Plus who wants to put that in their mouth after your mate has dropped off the kids at the pool and stunk out the bathroom….and the bedroom…..and the corridor……

In fact, come to think about it…I could smell it in reception when we left.

And yet, despite there being a mutual understanding that the aftermath of last night’s poorly chosen kebab is soon to make it’s debut appearance in a toilet bowl near you, it’s still met with “faaaarkin’ ‘ell mate!  What crawled up your arse and died??”.

I don’t think housekeeping get paid enough.