Tuesday, November 23, 2004

Ahem.

Grand soft day.

And what of Radge this last aeon? Little. Weekend was spent in Limerick watching films (about death) and reading a biography (that culminated in death). I wasn't at my most cheered getting back to Lucan manor on Monday evening, the foul stench of my own immortality hanging heavy in the air.

Friday night saw revelry. A hastily arranged meeting with Julianne in the Stag's Head turned shindiggish and saw me well gargled by the bussing hour, so I taxi'd home and did all I could not to regurgitate ale all over the driver's leather finish.

To the best of my recollection, the car spat me forth at the roundabout. The grass verge and I are no longer on nodding terms. Oh well, does a lad good once in a while.

Woke up fine on Saturday morning, but piece by piece the night returned to me. Some amount of eejitry, I really have to stop 'being Kurt Russell.'

Unrelated topic: Why can't some people eat with their FUCKING MOUTHS CLOSED???

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