Too much time on my hands down here in Limerick. thoughts turn to the (much) fairer sex, to booze, pubs, the shindig in general.
At what point in the evening does confidence turn to assholery, does silliness take hold? Is it a four drink minimum? A specific witching hour? A twist of circumstance?
Whatever. Getting the balance right is the key. Nothing wrong with a bit of Dutch Gold courage and it starts off well. You hold court, do your best Kurt Russell impression and things appear to be 'on'.
However, soon it's "djjje know whaaa? Youuuu're souuunnd! No, no, sirrriously, you're up therrrre wi', ye know, yer one! Yer one that's....just....souuund. YouknowtheoneI'monabou'..."
At this stage she's off talking to, I dunno, Gordon D'Arcy, while you've become the village idiot doing your best to get a taxi home with the bird on the beermat.
And then there's that morning after feeling.
Solutions on a postcard...