Can I face it? Can I tackle another pummelling from the pint glass? I can't. It's been an insane week.
As Thursday crept into Friday I knew there was a storm a-coming. Kenny with his American pal Will, over to savour Croke Park on a frenetic Sunday. As a preamble there was drinking to be done, and how.
Lads got in on Friday for a few quiet ones in the house. Or so I thought. They arrived with Kev and duly bludgeoned me into town. I tried to fight it but proved the softest touch to the machine that is Kenny.
Got into work Saturday with a head like a chewed tomato, all mush and juices intertwined with the pull and the push of my dullest thoughts. Somehow produced some alright articles but.
Saturday was the Long Stone. A strangely soporific and sober affair, for me anyway. While the lads were getting hammered the drink was not connecting to my recepticons. Remained cogent and fully aware of myself. Didnae fuck up once.
As a result Sunday in work was a relatively hangover-free affair, and I thought I may even get away with not drinking that night. Wrong again. To Pravda and to the Market Bar and to The Village with us. It was another night where the lads were leagues ahead of me in the drinking stakes, and I decided I'd had enough when fire was introduced into the equation.
Headed home about 11.30, with my slumber predictably interrupted by the returning masses at 2am for a couple of night-caps. Cut to the here and now, it's Tuesday night and I haven't even had the respite of a day off this past week. I'm coming across slightly jaded and I apologise for that.
One things for definite: This weekend coming I'm closed for business.