I don’t know what’s come over me – something very very strange anyway – it’s 5.45 and I’m actually looking forward to going to the gym. Somewhat hungover so will have an easy session – it’s remarkable how much harder it is to exercise with a hangover and if you monitor your heart beat closely you can definitely see it’s less regular than normal.
This isn’t just my hypochonriacal behaviour, it’s true – the BBC say :
"Electrolyte imbalanceVital electrolytes such as magnesium and potassium are excreted from the body with the urine. These minerals help keep the heart beating and dangerous cardiac arrhythmias can occur after heavy drinking."
I did however somehow manage to drop about 90 quid on gym kit today, so I suppose I should really use it. Flipping T shirts.
On the other hand nothing on this earth could make me eat one of these fooddoctor bars. I don’t know what the others are like but the tomato and chile is so unrelentingly vile that they could quite legally put zero calories on the packet because no one with enough sanity left to tell that they’re not eating a 3 week dead King Charles spaniel left out on the beach could bring themselves to eat this . . . this . . . this . . . abomination!
I swallowed one mouthful before I knew what I was doing and then spat what was left into the bin. Frankly, ladies and gentlemen, it was reeeeeee-volting.
If the people from fooddoctor are reading here’s a tip: Either move into the maximum security asylum food provision business or make your health bars nicer. Never mind nicer – as a goal why not try for ‘not actually completely disgusting’. After all I’m a man who can quite happily live off cabbage soup, barley and liver, so I’m not exactly the most demanding of gourmets - Sort It Aaaarrrrttt.
Call me miserable but I *so* don’t get all this St Patrick’s Day nonsense. I like a drink as much as the next man, but this is a night to definitely stay in. In this respect I am like the undead on Hallowe’en in the Buffyverse.
Why would any self respecting professional drinker want to go out on the piss on the one night of the year when every pub in the world will be rammed to the gunnels with eejits and Sunday drinkers enjoying the ‘craic’ and swilling down pints of green dyed lager.
My colleagues have all gone to the local branch of O’Neills (fake Oirish chain pub), which is a sack of shit at the best of times. Tonight . . . . . shudder!
What’s wrong with people?
Thursday, March 17, 2005