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
Monday, March 14, 2005
Terrine of goat’s cheese, apple and home made fois gras with a green leaf salad and honey vinaigrette
Selection of Spanish home cured meats
Squid cooked in it’s own ink with rice
Went to Dr Heartbreak’s leaving do on Saturday. Very good fun and I even DJed for about ½ an hour. Unfortunately my taste in music (bangin’ chowns) did not really meet the Fat Doctor’s required music policy (guitar music of the indie variety 1985-1992) so was removed, but the crowd were mad for it. Well some of them were anyway.
It would also appear that I could of pulled. OK the person in question was dead drunk throwing herself at everyone and generally making a bit of a scene, but they all count. Naturally of course I hid down the far end of the bar behind a big row of pints when I realised that X was lunging at me, but that’s NOT THE POINT ;-)
Speaking of scoring a certain Mr S was also to be seen locked in a hideous lip smacking clinch for most of the night. Now this is understandable because Mr S hasn’t had any action in about a billion years, and she was pretty damn gorgeous, so revolting spit swapping can be forgiven on this occasion. Poor Mr S. Women tend to fancy him until they realise what a very strange man he really is – a sort of cross between Bez, Worzell Gummidge and the Hermit of Lindisfarne – though usually they never get as far as touching him due to the massive cloud of drug crazed madness that swirls around him at all times. Self described current occupation : watching daytime cartoons and masturbation. And he’s not lying.
Catching up with him later he seemed somewhat bemused, not to say alarmed by having this gorgeous young lady surgically attach herself to his face. It didn’t help that he then told me that he hasn’t tidied his bedroom since he moved in 7 years ago. And note what I said earlier – it’s not like it hasn’t been tidied because it doesn’t need it. Must find out how the evening resolved itself. Hopefully Mr S played the gentleman card and beetled off home to clean up pronto . . .
But then I can hardly talk myself. Psychologically a room that looks like the left over dinner in Saddam Hussein’s beard is copping off protection. Nothing can ever happen because you can’t let it happen or then someone would see the midden you live in.
Why do we do it to ourselves? As if life wasn’t complicated enough without adding in one’s own concocted psychological mysteries. Eeeesh.
Boss Man! Do stare at your computer like it’s an alien being and then proceed to hunt and peck your way through some tragic torturous e-mail? Here’s a tip : Retire. Now.
at 6:56 pm
Friday, March 04, 2005
I'm in love, I'm in love, I'm in love . . . but unfortunately not with the Belle of St Marks or indeed with a human being at all. Instead I am engaged in a deeply meaningful relationship with my brand spanking new Mac Mini. Even though all I have done so far is stroke the boxes it is without doubt the most fulfilling personal experience I've had in years. just the sight of that wireless mouse looking like, like, well, a bit like a very expensive bar of girl soap to be frank, is more than enough to make me come over all 2 & 8.
Tomorrow I'm installing a router and then I will be fully SAD† compliant.
† SAD : Sad. As in ‘you sad little man’.
at 5:58 pm
Tuesday, March 01, 2005
Eeesh – dunno what’s going on here – I’m exercising like a bastard, not drinking, going to bed at 10 every night, and can I sleep? No I cannot. Maybe it’s because in the few moments I’m not Boring For Britain I’ve been playing too much Mercenaries which I have to say is wicked good. As I’m lying there tossing and turning little figures are gesticulating at me and jabbering something incomprehensible, and the bullets are pinging around me. But resistance is useless because I’m in a tank and I’m about to call down an air strike on you. How d’you like them apples, useless AI live in a computer person! Seriously this is a GREAT game, but the potential for staying up all night is very strong.
Tip from the Panster, Godfather supreme, if you can smell the nappy from 2 rooms away nothing good therein lies. In fact something that could hold it’s head high in the company of pooh produced by the devil’s own satanic herd therein lies. In the ski world it would be red/black run (nice), maybe a mogul field (off-piste is for when the stuff’s escaping round the edges) so perhaps not the best ever introduction to nappy changing, especially as for reasons too complicated to go into I was pretty much on my own out there, but the Panster got there in the end . . . as indeed he should.
If you give up drinking during the week despite pretty much a lifetime of non stop hedonism, by the time Friday comes around you are more than ready for a pint or 2. In fact, ready to the extent that all caution is thrown to the wind as pint after pint is consumed in what can really only be described as a bit of a lager frenzy. Result : realising you’re on a bus without your bag, phone or house keys, it’s 3.30 am and you have no idea where you are. Happy days!
at 7:44 pm